Candlestick Chronicles
by Cjay
Summary: Barrett contacts Carter about a plot involving O'Neill's genetic material. And the intriuge begins!
1. Jack be Nimble

The Candlestick Chronicles.  
  
Part I…Jack be Nimble.  
  
© By Cjay  
  
Agent Malcolm Barrett, NID, idly scanned the thick sheaf of reports piled on his desk. This was the price one paid to be the man in charge, tons and tons of paperwork. He'd learned recently that an acquaintance of his, Jack O'Neill, had been promoted to Brigadier General and was now in charge of Stargate Command. He didn't know the new General well, but he'd surmised from the small bits of information he did have that the man despised paperwork as much as Barrett did. Sighing, he wished O'Neill well.  
  
Paperwork bored him; now and then however, a kernel of intrigue turned up in the most mundane of places. Today was one of those days. Sitting up straighter, in his ergonomically sound chair, Barrett read the report more carefully. Ever one to be precise, he double-checked the data, cross-referencing the information via his computer. Sure enough, it looked quite possible that another rogue faction of the NID was up to something; and as head of security, it was up to him, along with a few carefully selected men, to delve into the matter further. Protocol dictated absolute secrecy. Loyalty and honor were however, another matter. Past experiences led him to feel that, at the very least, he owed an alert, regarding any possible developing situation, to one member of the SGC, posthaste!   
  
Leaving the confines of the NID headquarters in Washington, D.C., Barrett hastened to a nearby park. Buying a hot dog from the vendor there, he parked himself casually on a bench and covertly scanned the crowd, munching on the dog. After a few minutes, when he was quite sure he'd not been followed, he pulled out his personal and very secure cell phone. Keeping a sharp eye, he hit the speed dial.  
  
Sam Carter thrust a free hand into her jacket pocket and pulled out her jingling cell phone, swearing under her breath. She hadn't had much free time lately, now that she was the leader of SG-1. This morning had been an exception; having completed her mission reports, she was fiddling with a device SG-12 had brought back from their latest survey of P3X-429.  
  
Since that cliché villain Anubis had been neutralized, General O'Neill had deemed the planet safe for further exploration. Sam had theorized, based on its size and the location in which it had been found, that this unknown artifact might be some form of communication device, but as yet, she was unsure.  
  
Annoyed by the interruption, Sam pressed the talk button on her cell phone. 'RATS! I finally get a minute and the damned phone rings!' "Carter."  
  
Pleased he'd caught her 'on world,' Barrett spoke up, "Congratulations on the promotion, Colonel Carter."   
  
Recognizing the friendly voice, Sam thrust the alien device aside. If Agent Malcolm Barrett NID, was phoning her in the middle of the morning something was definitely up. "Thank you. What's up, Malcolm?"  
  
Barrett, laughing lightly, watched warily as a possible bogey moved across the park heading his way. It was imperative that he keep it cool and project only a casual interest in the fellow. "Oh, Sammy behave! I miss you too, baby; can't wait to hold you in my arms and, well…you know."   
  
Startled at first, Sam quickly caught on. "I assume your location is not secure and something of an urgent nature has come to your attention?" Either that or Barrett's last meal had been of the liquid variety!   
  
"You always could read me like a book babe. Are you free for breakfast in the morning?" Barrett asked, infusing his voice with innuendo. "Better yet, why don't we begin with supper tonight, say eight o'clock at that cozy place we love so well?"  
  
'That urgent?' Sam thought. "I think that can be arranged. Where can I reach you to confirm?"   
  
The bogey was leaning casually against a tree, a mere five feet from Malcolm's park bench, feeding the pigeons. "Wear that little black number. You know, the one that does such crazy things to me, will ya baby?"   
  
Sporting a lecherous leer, Barrett stood up slowly and adjusted his trousers. Then, nonchalantly strolled away from the pigeon feeder. "Yes that's the one…"   
  
Once he'd successfully put distance between himself and his apparent shadow, Barrett lowered his voice. "Just be there. And tell O'Neill it may be vital!" Ending the call, he strolled coolly back to his office.  
  
Sam sat back contemplating the implications of Barrett's phone call and his little ploy. The restaurant location was a given. After their last adventure they'd shared a celebratory meal at Kelley's Steak House, not far from the Washington Monument.   
  
Not too long ago, he'd help clear Colonel Jack O'Neill's name. That little exercise in smoke and mirrors had involved a rogue faction of the NID, some sleazy businessmen and Senator Kinsey. Hoping that they were not about to be treated to a repeat of that foul incident, Sam hurried off to consult with General O'Neill.  
  
O'Neill, having personally experienced the gray and murky world of covert operations, arranged for the immediate transportation of Lt. Colonel Carter to Washington D.C., cautioning her to watch her six. Hoping to keep things quiet, he'd procured her a second seat on one of the Thunderbirds' training missions out of Nellis, near Area 51. He'd figured she might as well get in a bit of flying time while she was at it, in order to keep up her flight status. She could return the following day in the same manner and it would appear to be nothing more than another senior officer's routine logging of flight time.  
  
He'd considered sending Teal'c along on a commercial flight as backup just in case, but after reflecting on Barrett and Carter's conversation, he decided against it. If Barrett had thought she'd need backup, he would have worked it into their brief exchange. O'Neill fervently prayed that that rat bastard Kinsey wasn't involved in whatever Barrett was so hopped up about. He'd had enough of that moronic shrub to last several lifetimes!  
  
Clare Wellington sailed smoothly into the cafeteria of Colorado Springs High; as the new girl here, she had yet to meet many of the other teenagers and was feeling a bit shy. What was it about teenagers in general that spooked anyone new? Perhaps it was the fact that this hormone-riddled time in one's life made even the mildest of personalities suspicious, wary and downright cruel. She'd already been treated to a wealth of smirks and sly remarks throughout her first classes of the day. The girls had been especially snotty. Could she help it if she was a bit of a stunner?   
  
Blonde and a bit buxom at five feet eight inches tall, she fit into every adolescent boy's fantasy. Her flawless ivory skin, full pouting lips and huge blue eyes added to her almost too perfect image - one, which many a young lad would associate with a girl more concerned with her appearance, rather than scholarship.   
  
Jonathon O'Neill, sixteen-year-old clone and former Colonel, wasn't just any young lad. Usually, Jon kept a very low profile. However, he'd found the treatment his classmates had subjected the new girl to unacceptable. Determined to befriend the hapless creature, he made a beeline toward the corner table in the cafeteria, where she was quietly eating her lunch. Clearing his throat and hoping his voice didn't crack, he drew her attention and nodded his head to the empty seat across from her. "Excuse me, is this seat taken?"  
  
Looking up, Clare took in the lanky stripling before her with a shy smile. He seemed friendly enough. "It's free, have a seat. I'm Clare Wellington. I'm new here."  
  
Placing his tray carefully on the surface of the table, Jon removed his backpack and laid it at his feet. Returning her smile, he folded his half-grown form into the chair. "I'm Jon O'Neill. I was new last year. It can be a bit rough at first, but you'll get by. Don't let these yahoos get you down." Nodding his head toward the next table over, where the popular crowd generally settled for lunch, he began eating the less than delicious food on his plate.  
  
The two ate quietly for a time, each unsure just what to say next.  
  
'Come on O'Neill. Talk to the girl.' Although he'd adjusted to life as a juvenile, Jon still felt like a fifty-year-old man most of the time. He supposed that eventually he'd get comfortable in this new skin. However, the average teenage girl's immature chatter still made him feel ancient. "So, what subjects do you prefer?" 'Oh good one, O'Neill…weak!'  
  
"Actually, the teachers at my last high school wanted me to graduate early." Clare told him, flushing slightly. "I tested at the college level in all my courses, but my folks were afraid I'd miss out on too much fun."   
  
Looking into her blonde, blue eyed and appealingly flushed face, Jon had a fleeting image of Carter and the way she'd looked at their first briefing, eight long years ago. Realizing how similar she was in appearance to his former second in command, his pubescent body thrummed with primitive interest. 'Easy there O'Neill, best you remember this is a teenaged girl here, not a full-grown woman. She is not Carter.'  
  
Preoccupied with her dessert, Clare failed to notice Jon's sudden lapse in their conversation. "The only class that has me worried is physics. I have never been very science oriented," Clare admitted.   
  
'Okay, definitely not Carter.' Jon graced Clare with his most dazzling smile. "Then I am your man. At least when it comes to physics, just comes naturally to me." Rolling his eyes he added, "Just don't expect any help with the chemistry…" Lowering his voice conspiratorially, he continued, "last week, I almost blew up the lab!"  
  
Perfect! They could help each other out and Clare would get to see more of this charmer. "It's a deal then! I'll help you with chemistry if you'll help me with the physics. That is, if you're not tied up. Maybe you'd like to come over to my house tomorrow and we can tutor one another?"  
  
'Well why not? Tomorrow is Friday and you have absolutely nothing else pressing planned. Because O'Neill, you are a fifty year old geezer, that's why!' Hearing the end of the lunch period bell ringing, he came to a quick decision. "Sure, I'd like that."  
  
"Wonderful! My Dad will pick us both up after school and you can stay to supper. My Mom is a great cook."   
  
Rising, Clare began to gather up her backpack and empty tray. "Meet me in front of the gym after last class."  
  
Nodding, Jon watched her sashay away, wondering if maybe his hormones had finally eroded his common sense.  
  
Sam found her time in the air, above the clouds, to be an interlude of wonder and freedom. Flying in the F-16D twin cockpit jet was a thrill, especially since the pilot took the rear position in the tandem cockpit, leaving Sam in the visually stunning forward student position. Flying always got her juices flowing and she'd had to suppress a whoop of joy when the Colonel handed over the controls approximately thirty minutes into the flight.   
  
Colonel Karl Draymak, the pilot, had turned out to be an old acquaintance from Sam's academy days. The two spent the time reminiscing and trying a few maneuvers that would have turned a less formidable woman's hair O'Neill gray.  
  
As team leader of the Thunderbirds, stationed at Nellis Air Base, it was up to Karl to schedule all training flights and he'd been the one to take the call from General O'Neill.   
  
To say that he'd been honored to speak with the man would be an understatement. During the recent hush-hush battle over Antarctica, Draymak and his team had done more than put in some fancy flying time. He was well aware of the General's contributions in saving the entire planet. And, anything he could do for the man, he'd do personally. The fact that said favor involved Sam Carter, was an added bonus. He'd had quite a crush on the brilliant woman during their time together at the Academy, but she hadn't seen him as anything more than a friend.  
  
The long flight made it necessary to pull off a mid-air refueling along the way, yet they still managed to make good time. Now as the F-16 came in for a landing outside D.C., the Colonel found himself wondering if she could use a little backup. "So Sam, what say I tag along and watch your six?"  
  
Smiling behind her oxygen mask, Sam remembered what a mother hen Karl had been in their old Academy days. "While having the leader of the Dunderheads minding my six does have its appeal, I don't think so Karl."  
  
"That's Thunderbirds, Colonel and don't you forget it! Giant eagles and hawks of the sky…when we take flight, the earth trembles from the mighty thunder of our wings!" Karl corrected her good-naturedly, reciting the Native American's traditional definition of the rare bird. "Look, my middle name is clandestine. No one will know I'm there. And I hear they serve a mean steak at Kelley's."  
  
"I haven't told you why I'm here Karl… how did you…?"  
  
Completing a perfect landing, Karl removed his mask and smirked. "The General filled me in on the details…wanted me to be aware, just in case, he said."  
  
Sam wasn't sure if she should be annoyed, or touched, that General O'Neill was still looking out for her, even now when she was technically no longer his second in command. 'Why am I surprised? The man had earned a PHD. in Yiddish Mama over the years!' "Fine Karl, but I call the shots."  
  
Sighing with satisfaction, Karl began his post flight checklist. 'Hot damn! O'Neill sure has her pegged.' "Agreed. Oh, and Sam, just curious, did you really pack a little black dress for this so-called date?"  
  
Special Agent Malcolm Barrett had spent the afternoon delving further into the possible plot his security team had uncovered. After the previous Kinsey/O'Neill caper, he'd charged his best hacker, Ned Drew, with the task of searching out bogus sites on the Internet.   
  
It was Ned's job to scrutinize web sites and find any hidden Easter eggs designed to camouflage information; then analyze and piece any data together in order to determine possible threats to national security, with the added codicil that he was to keep tabs on any further threats to O'Neill and the SGC. When he'd uncovered a reference to the name O'Neill, cleverly hidden within a bit of rubbish on a new and highly suspicious site, the warning bells had gone off in his ever-watchful brain and he'd fired off an immediate report to his superior.  
  
Barrett had only one complaint; Ned had failed to call him personally. Now, normally this would have annoyed any boss, but Malcolm was confident Ned was still hacking away, adding to his findings.   
  
Thus, as Barrett ventured into the bowels of NID headquarters seeking a personal audience with his resident computer geek, he reserved any lecturing until he had a few more facts. Entering the pristine, and obsessively organized den of his own lion of the Internet, he took in the man's busy fingers at the keyboard and pulled up a chair to wait.  
  
Ned graced his boss with a nod and a brief glance. This was a familiar dance. Ned would finish whatever he was in the middle of and then spiel off more information than the average man could retain in rapid-fire succession. "Be with you in a nanosecond, Sir." Carefully storing the data he'd been downloading, Drew placed his computer in standby. Remaining seated in his chair on wheels, he scooted over to another laptop and turned the monitor toward Barrett. "Glad to see you, Sir. I was growing a bit concerned, it's after one and I concealed my red flag report amongst your routine morning updates around ten."  
  
Eyeing him intently, Barrett sighed. "You love the intrigue don't you Drew. Look, hiding that information within my wonderfully banal paperwork was a good idea, but next time, could you give me the courtesy of a heads up of some kind. I didn't see it till almost 1130 hours!"   
  
Blushing to the roots of his sandy blond hair, Ned realized he might have taken his fascination with stealth too far. "Oh, sorry, boss. I'm pretty sure we've got a mole somewhere within the NID and I … Ah… well, I thought this was the best way to inform you…"  
  
Dismissing the excuse with a wave, Barrett got down to business. "So what else have you learned Drew? Is there a plot involving General O'Neill brewing?"  
  
Failing to contain his excitement, Ned began his litany; and before Barrett left him, he'd praised the kid for his ingenuity and his quick thinking.  
  
Scanning the crowded steakhouse for any unfriendly types, Karl Draymak sipped his beer thoughtfully. Sam sure did look hot in the black number she was wearing. The woman had always been attractive, but there was definitely something new about her. Maybe it was the added confidence she'd acquired. Then again, maybe it was her impressively cut body. The dress was short and tight, leaving very little to the imagination. Her lightly tanned shoulders and arms were exposed, due to the flimsy straps, which barely held up the skimpy top of satiny silk. She looked good enough to eat. And judging by the sexy way she'd walked as she followed the hostess to her table, she knew it. Realizing he was salivating like Pavlov's dog, Karl took another gulp of his beer and shifted his gaze once more.   
  
There were several shady looking types scattered about the dining room, but this was Washington D.C. after all. Karl wasn't really sure just what sort of character he was looking for. The General's explanation had been a bit vague.   
  
Well for now, he'd content himself with suspecting virtually everyone in the room, including the overly friendly hostess. The luscious redhead had come over more than a few times to inquire how he was doing. Either she was just a really nice gal, or she was on the prowl, he wasn't sure which. There was always a possibility that she was a plant spying on Sam and if so, she had made him. Turning his back to the room, he stared at his drink, doing his best imitation of a brooding alcoholic, all the while surreptitiously keeping tabs on Sam in the mirror behind the bar.  
  
Sam followed the hostess to the table Barrett had reserved for them, feeling a bit uncomfortable in the mini-length tight black sheath; she'd squeezed into in order to maintain her cover. The damned thing kept riding up her thighs! She was much more at ease in her comfortable fatigues. Judging by the lecherous looks several sleazy types were giving her, Barrett had better show soon or she'd be fending off unwelcome advances.  
  
Malcolm deliberately arrived a bit late. He'd planted a couple of his operatives around the place, hoping for a better idea of just whom they were dealing with. The perky redheaded hostess took him directly to a table in the dead center of the room, where a blonde knockout awaited him. 'Wow!'  
  
Leaning over, he kissed Sam on the cheek, clasping her left hand in his right. His expression could only be interpreted as licentious as he eased himself into the seat next to her. Leaning over, he whispered in her ear. "You look fantastic! I won't have to pretend to be interested in you, Samantha."  
  
Sam rested her head against Barrett's, blushing with genuine satisfaction. 'Why not enjoy the compliment?' Affecting a husky purr, she returned the whisper. "Thank you, Malcolm. What news?"  
  
"My best hacker found a couple of vague references scattered here and there, regarding a J. O'Neill and operation double helix." Raising her hand to his mouth, he sucked on her knuckles, looking her heatedly in the eye, he continued, "Turns out, the web site in question doesn't belong to any of the known NID factions. Only one name is familiar."  
  
Sam caressed his cheek with her free hand. "Kinsey?" She hissed.   
  
Turning his head slightly, Malcolm lightly kissed her lips. "Bingo. Several other names also registered. Ever hear of a corporation called GEOM?"  
  
Nipping his lower lip with her teeth, Sam returned the kiss. "No. What does it stand for?"  
  
Drawing back to gaze lustfully into her eyes, he shook his head. "I haven't got a clue. We couldn't find any information on it. Other than that it's based in Canada." Running his index finger along her jaw suggestively, he smiled lazily. "My hacker, Ned Drew, thinks it's just another reference to the double helix… DNA. And that someone is after a sampling of O'Neill's genetic material. The real question is why?"  
  
Stunned, Sam almost forgot for a minute to return his adoring gaze. "I think I know why and if I'm right, Kinsey just crossed the line." Channeling her sudden anger into an expression of ardent desire, Sam elaborated. "I think the former Vice President has just officially become a traitor… we just have to prove it."  
  
Malcolm gulped. For a moment, he wished this was not just an elaborate ruse and she was really coming home with him tonight. "First, we need to warn the General, and if we're lucky, catch the perps in the act."  
  
The waiter came up just then, asking to take their order. Informing Malcolm in a husky voice that he should order for her, Sam excused herself and headed to the ladies room. Several women followed after her. Unable to make use of her cell phone, she dug in her purse for a scrap of paper and a pen. Seeking seclusion from curious eyes inside a stall, she hurriedly scribbled an encrypted message.  
  
Karl had watched Sam and her lucky dinner partner's little display with amusement. Hot damn, they were good. If he didn't know better, he would have thought they were really into each other, not two undercover operatives. Sam had sure tapped into some hidden talents. As she'd left to go to the ladies room, her escort had watched her every move rapaciously. Karl suspected that unbeknownst to Sam, the dude really did have a thing for her.  
  
Catching sight of Sam's return to the dining room out of the corner of his eye, he watched her head his way. Throwing her arms around him, she yelped. "Karl, you darling thing you, where have you been keeping yourself? It's been too long! Are you still making mad love to Andre? How's the decorating business?" Thrusting a scrap of paper into his hand, she added, "Call me, we'll do lunch."   
  
Well, this beat them all. Not only had she effectively passed him a message. She'd pegged him for a light in the loafer's interior decorator! A bit stunned, he caught the bartender's eye. The burly fellow blew him a kiss and winked!   
  
Tossing back the rest of his beer, Karl beat a hasty retreat.   
  
Once outside, he headed to an isolated location and scanned the note. Flipping open his cell phone, he dialed the secure number the General had given him earlier in the day. The call was answered on the first ring and Karl made an efficient report to General Jack O'Neill.  
  
Jon meandered into his first class of the morning and took his usual seat near the window. He had a habit of floating into his classes just before the bell would ring. Punctuality wasn't the issue, being forced to sit still for long periods of time however, was. Tucking his backpack under his chair, Jon flipped open his spiral notebook without looking up. Thus, he failed to notice the absence of his usual teacher, Mr. James.  
  
The young woman standing with her back to the class, writing a theory on the board seemed familiar somehow. She was tiny, with tightly braided reddish-gold hair. Turning around she scanned the class, hesitating infinitesimally when her eyes met his. "Good morning. My name is Ms. Hailey. Mr. James was called away for an emergency, so I'll be subbing for him today."  
  
Jon kept his gaze casual. Ms. Hailey? Make that Lieutenant Jennifer Hailey of the SGC to be exact. Stargate Commands' own four foot nine, lean - mean -fighting machine! Feigning the need to stretch, he checked the perimeter of the classroom. Nope, Hailey was alone. If the old man had sent her something was up, something big enough for her to go all cloak and dagger by assuming the role of a substitute teacher. He'd need some excuse to stay after class to speak with her. Best way to accomplish that little chore was to disrupt the class. The other students would assume that she'd held him back for a reprimand; and besides, he had a reputation of being a bit of a wiseacre. Ah, O'Neill! Some things never change!  
  
Hailey was busy explaining the nature of optical density. She really had a knack for embracing the subject and normally, Jon would have been very receptive. However, he needed to cause a stir. Yawning dramatically, he made a 'yuck' sound and plopped his head loudly on his desktop, mumbling "Boring!"  
  
Jennifer had to press her lips together tightly in order to suppress a guffaw, causing her expression to appear very annoyed. While the young man she had been told was the General's clone appeared sixteen going on seventeen, he had all the mannerisms and subtlety of the real O'Neill. A man she all but worshipped and found vastly amusing. Clearing her throat loudly, she stared at this heretic in the world of science, pinning him with an evil eye. "Do you have a question?"  
  
Ignoring her, Jon sat back up and pressed both hands over his eyes.   
  
Meanwhile, Hailey's exasperated voice demanded that someone supply his name. A laughter-filled voice from the back of the room supplied it promptly. "Jon O'Neill, ma'am."   
  
"Mr. O'Neill, do you have something to add?" Hailey demanded.  
  
Jon continued to ignore her.  
  
Striding over to stand imperiously over him, Hailey repeated her query.  
  
Rubbing his face as if to attempt to stay awake, Jack finally treated her to his unfocused gaze, "What?"  
  
Hailey beat out an impatient staccato with her toe and folded her arms over her chest. "Suppose you grace the class with an example of optical density, Mr. O'Neill."  
  
Jon looked over the rest of the class, fixing a dopey grin on his lips. Catching Clare's shocked gaze, he winked. "Old Bob Morse's glasses. They'd be in the optical density category."   
  
Wrinkling her brow in consternation, Hailey guessed that the thickly bespectacled, pimple-faced fellow blushing furiously in the front row, must be the unhappy victim. "How so?"  
  
'Sorry Bob, I'll apologize later.' Smirking, Jon shrugged. "Never have seen anything more optically dense than old Bob's specs! Especially when, he neglects to clean them and they are basically covered with greasy finger marks…"   
  
Taking pity on the hapless Bob, Hailey silenced the laughing classroom with a loud hiss. "Enough! Mr. O'Neill, you will remain after class and we will discuss your observations at length! Sweeping the rest of the students with an angry frown, Hailey asked. "Anyone else have something less ridiculous to offer?" The room suddenly became very still. "Fine, then let's continue the lesson."  
  
Slumping sullenly in his seat, Jon maintained a silently resentful attitude for the remainder of the class.   
  
Once the bell rang and the other students had filed out, Hailey closed the door and walked over to her errant student. "You are definitely an O'Neill."  
  
Jon looked her directly in the eye and unfolded his newly impressive five-foot ten-inch frame. He'd sprouted up over the past year and, since she was a great deal shorter, he towered over her. He'd been eating a lot of protein and working out diligently, packing on at least fifteen pounds of sinewy muscle. Still, he had to hand it to her; Hailey didn't flinch. "Despite appearances, Hailey, I am Jack O'Neill, or rather I used to be."  
  
Realizing she'd inadvertently insulted him, Hailey snapped to attention. "I meant no disrespect, Sir. I …"  
  
Sighing, Jon shrugged off her apology and relaxed his stance. "Skip it, Hailey, I'm not a Colonel any longer. What brings you to the stimulating world of juvenile academia?"  
  
Relieved, yet still unsure just where she should begin, Hailey lowered her voice another notch. "Sir, that is Jon…may I call you Jon?" Noting his brief nod and ironic smile, she continued, "General O'Neill phoned me last night at 2200 and informed me I was to assume the role of substitute teacher. I was to alert you to a possible threat to your safety. And to arrange for your immediate removal to a more secure location until the matter is resolved."  
  
Jon digested that kernel thoughtfully for a minute.  
  
Understanding, that both clone and genuine article would feel awkward when it came to communication George Hammond checked in with the "younger" O'Neill from time to time, bless him. George's continued friendship and fatherly advice had been an invaluable lifeline, which had helped Jon adjust to his fate. Jon had heard about the recent civilian invasion. So, he had been aware of the changes in command at the SGC and in spite of the repercussions of Hammond's reassignment, they'd still maintained a rather tenuous link.   
  
Strangely, he was damned proud of Jack: the man who was himself, and yet not. "If Jack sent you in undercover like this, the threat is much more than a mere possibility."   
  
A loud knocking interrupted her reply. The grinning faces of several students could be seen through the door's small glass window.  
  
Glancing at the wall clock, Jon realized it was time for the next class session to begin. "Look, the Principal is aware of just who you are, right? The only way we are going to be able to talk undisturbed is if you march me to his office for a dressing down."  
  
Hailey's eyes widened. "I don't think…"  
  
Nurturing the role of errant pupil, Jon assumed a belligerent expression. "Hailey, it's the only way."  
  
Squaring her shoulders the diminutive woman reached up and neatly grasped his right ear. "Listen up mister, I've had quite enough of your smart mouth! Come with me." She bellowed.  
  
Hailey might be little, but she was mighty. Allowing her to pull him along, Jon followed her, pretending reluctance. She had quite a grip on his poor earlobe. Jon yelped. "For crying out loud! Go easy on the merchandise, lady!"   
  
The waiting students in the corridor were treated to the amusing sight of their resident lone wolf and oft times smart aleck, being dragged off to the principal by the tiny new substitute teacher.  
  
Affecting her most intimidating scowl, Hailey stared down those who dared to snicker, effectively stifling them. Bursting into the principal's office, she let go of Jon's ear and slammed the door.   
  
When his door was thrust open and the petite whirlwind sailed in with her victim in tow, Mr. Howard, principle of Colorado Springs High, was a bit taken aback.  
  
The boy's uncle, General O'Neill, had called him late the night before, requesting a status report on his nephew, and firmly informed Howard that the government would be requiring his assistance. Allowing Miss Hailey to substitute would render said aid; she'd be taking over Mr. James's class this morning. When Howard had requested an explanation, he was briskly informed that it was a need to know matter, and he, Mr. Howard, did not need to know. He had only to cooperate. Put in his place, Howard had readily agreed.   
  
Now, he wondered if young Jon had run afoul of his caustic uncle and he pitied the lad. He had never met this particular General. The Air Force had informed the school board when young Jon had enrolled that the lad had recently lost both of his parents, leaving him in the lose custody of several Air Force uncles. He had, however, met another of the boy's uncles, a General Hammond, who seemed a tad bit more genial than the steely O'Neill. "Miss Hailey, what in the world…?"  
  
Miss Hailey had the grace to flush, as she apologized. "Sorry for the sudden intrusion Mr. Howard, but I was unsure where else to go. I need to have a serious discussion with young Mr. O'Neill here."  
  
The sight of one of his favorite characters and a good student, Jon O'Neill, gingerly rubbing a reddened ear, caused the affable Howard to protest. "Miss Hailey, when General O'Neill informed me, and none too politely, that I was to allow you to keep tabs on his nephew, I was unaware that the lad would be mistreated!"   
  
Crap! Mr. Howard, ever the champion of justice and fair treatment (a fact which had quickly endeared him to Jon O'Neill) was pulling out his soapbox! "I'm all right, Mr. Howard. Really, she didn't hurt me. I was…"  
  
Shaking with fervor, Mr. Howard raised a silencing hand. Standing an impressive six-foot, six-inches, he moved out from behind his desk and placed a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder. "Furthermore Miss Hailey, anything you intend to discuss with young Jon here, will be discussed with me in attendance! It is patently obvious you haven't a clue how to properly treat an adolescent!"  
  
Lieutenant Jennifer Hailey U.S.A.F. was stunned and intimidated by the man's fervor. "Sir, I…"  
  
Wow! He knew Howard liked kids, but Jon had never imagined the mild mannered gentleman would be such a zealot! Cool! "Ah, Mr. Howard, Sir? Hailey was following my orders."  
  
Turning a kindly eye to the youngster, Howard took a deep calming breath. "Your orders, son?"  
  
Oops! "Err… well, my request, Sir. You see my Uncle Jack is concerned…he is privy to a great deal of delicate intelligence and evidently, something has made him concerned for my safety; so he sent the Lieutenant here to bring me to him quietly."  
  
Incredulous, Mr. Howard gently checked Jon's ear. "I hardly think manhandling your person would qualify as concern for your safety, Jon."  
  
Jon's smirking expression, clearly telegraphed his thoughts to the young Lieutenant. He's got you there, Hailey!   
  
"I regret the use of gentle force, Mr. Howard. I felt it was necessary in order to promote the idea that I was angry enough to drag Jon here for a reprimand," Hailey told him shamefaced.  
  
Noting that Jon's ear was no longer red and the young woman's tone was regretful, Mr. Howard considered that it had not been very long since Miss Hailey had herself, graduated from the confusing world of adolescence; and took pity on her. "So this was all a ruse?"  
  
"Yes, Sir." Hailey unconsciously stood at attention. "I assure you, Sir, it is imperative I be allowed to speak with Jon O'Neill alone."  
  
Shooting Jon a questioning look, and finding him nodding his acceptance, Mr. Howard reluctantly agreed. "Fine. I will be right outside the door if you need me, Jon."  
  
Jon watched Mr. Howard leave, with open admiration. "That man missed his calling. He'd have made a damn fine Air Force officer."  
  
Sitting exhaustedly in a nearby chair, Hailey cast Jon a wry look. "Takes one to know one. Now as I was saying, the general wants you out of here and secure, ASAP!"  
  
"Not gonna happen. At least, not until I have a complete explanation." Jon told her stubbornly.   
  
Eyeing her knowingly, he continued, "If you try anything, Hailey, that man out there will interfere, which will draw more attention. The General won't like that."  
  
Resigned to the inevitable, Hailey settled in for the duration. "I guess I forgot for a minute who I was talking too. You look different, but you are the same O'Neill I learned to admire, aren't you? Someone used to fighting his own battles and winning. With respect sir, the sad truth is that you are now, for better or worse, a young and still growing man. And, despite all your knowledge and expertise, physically not yet up to the challenge."  
  
Smiling evilly, Jon debated her. "I'm well aware of that fact, Hailey. Which, by the way, does not diminish my right to full disclosure. On the bright side, this body is a good deal more agile than my former aged one. And, despite the façade General O'Neill loves to project, this mind is a clever one."  
  
Hailey was rapidly learning to admire this younger version of her hero equally as much as the legendary original. "Agent Barrett of the NID contacted Colonel Carter yesterday regarding some intelligence his pet computer geek has uncovered. From what they've been able to piece together, there is some form of strategy being devised by as yet perpetrators unknown to obtain a sampling of O'Neill DNA."  
  
Cunning as ever, Jon caught on rapidly, "So Jack, knowing that he is a less vulnerable target, figured they might come after me."  
  
"Yes, and he wants you out of harm's way." Hailey told him softly. "As weird as this whole situation is, he does care about you, Jon."  
  
It was apparent from her sympathetic tone that the young Lieutenant was well aware of the facts regarding his current circumstances. Jack had demanded the Asgard repair whatever flaw they'd programmed into Jon's cloned body, thus saving his life. He'd understood completely why Jack had kept his distance until now; he had done the same. They were basically of one and the same mind. Still, the kid meant well. "I get that, Hailey, I do. Unfortunately, we are no longer exactly the same. We've each had over a year of diverse experiences to add the spice of change to the mix."  
  
Rubbing his hands over his face in a gesture eerily familiar to the young officer, Jon contemplated his options, coming to an abrupt decision. "As far as I'm concerned, we've only one viable solution; use me as bait."  
  
Gulping loudly, Hailey shook her head adamantly. "No way! The General will have me court-martialed!"  
  
Leaning over her still seated form, Jon placed both his lean hands on her shoulders, staring earnestly into her eyes. "No, he won't. I am he, that is, he is I… well, we think alike anyway. Uncle Jack will totally accept my plan. Trust me."  
  
Pulling a small cell phone out of her jacket pocket, Hailey flipped it open. "We'll just call him and confirm…"  
  
Jon closed his bigger hand over her small one. "Negative! Look, he expects you to substitute here at least for the day, right?"  
  
Hailey confirmed that fact warily. "Well, yes, but I'm to report in…"  
  
Jon rushed ahead persuasively, "So, we try it my way, at least until the end of the day… I'll be careful and stick close… check in with you after each class. If nothing out of the ordinary occurs, I'll meet up with you after the last bell. And then we go see big daddy Jack. Deal?"  
  
Fearing she was about to blow her career, Hailey nodded reluctantly. He would have his way come hell or high water; maybe if she compromised just a tad, he'd come along quietly at the end of the day. "Fine, Sir. Do you have a cell phone?"  
  
Rolling his eyes, Jon reached into his back pocket and pulled out the very latest in high-tech micro cell phones. "Duh!"  
  
'Jon is definitely NOT the General!' "Good. I'll program mine with your number, while you add my number to your speed dial. If either of us sees anything suspicious, we contact one another by cell ASAP and get the hell out!" Hailey instructed, adamantly.  
  
'You'll do, Hailey,' Jon thought. Chances were, nothing of any interest would happen; a fact which would disappoint him thoroughly. He'd been missing the action more and more lately. Now here was a chance to get in the game once more, if only for a brief interlude. "Affirmative, Lieutenant." Grinning, he snapped her a salute. "Ah, ya know, Hailey, we could just use the walkie-talkie feature." He added wryly.  
  
'Whoa! Did I just say he wasn't the General?'   
  
Words…6718... End part one. TBC... 


	2. Jack be Quick

Jack be Quick (Eye of the Hurricane)  
© By Cjay The Candlestick Chronicles part two.  
  
General Jack O'Neill checked his wristwatch yet again; still no word from Hailey. He had thought the orders he'd given the Lieutenant last night had been both succinct and crystal clear. She was to go undercover as a substitute high school teacher, contact the 'kid' and get him the hell out of Dodge. It should have been a piece of cake assignment. (It would have been if the 'kid' had been just that -- a kid, and not Jon O'Neill, Jack's clone.) She'd gone in at 0800. It was now 1500 hours and still no Hailey, no report and no 'mini me.' Crap!  
  
Sighing gustily, Jack picked up his secure cell phone and hit the speed dial. He should have known this assignment would be too much for Hailey. Hell, he should have realized that his clone would be able to manipulate the young officer. Gad, he had done it often enough himself.  
  
He hated to admit it, but Daniel had been right when he'd insisted Jack send in someone more seasoned, namely Daniel. Hailey was a good officer, but according to Danny, she had one fatal flaw; she worshipped Jack O'Neill. His innate modesty and Daniel's sense of the dramatic had led Jack to scoff at such goofy a notion. Now he wasn't so sure.  
  
Never mind her Lilliputian stature, Hailey was a unique blend of brains and tenacity. Jack had often referred to her as a four-foot-nine lean mean fighting machine and had sort of taken her under his wing, nurturing her nimble mind's ability to grasp intricate strategies. She'd proven to be a damned fine judge of character, once the arrogant chip had been knocked off her shoulder. 'Yep, and she trusts yours O'Neill, yours and ditto-boy's that is.' Double crap! Jack had known his 'alter ego' would recognize her quickly, figure something was up and make swift contact. He should have therefore also known his clone would want to stay in the game. Convincing Hailey to hang in for a bit would have been no trouble at all for Jack O'Neill, and apparently, it wasn't for Jon either.  
  
Daniel Jackson leaned back against the sturdy wooden bench sipping his ever-present coffee. As much as he loved to tease and torment Jack about his inability to grasp complex concepts, he knew that his friend was a great deal more intelligent than he let on. It was one of those self-deprecating qualities, which made Jack, the hard-nosed military man, so very lovable. So why had he been so stubbornly obtuse when it came to involving Hailey in the deceptively easy mission of retrieving his young clone?  
  
Daniel had thought long and hard about just that over the past hour and he'd come to the conclusion that it had been Jack's inbred modesty, which had blinded him. Jack O'Neill had assumed that the brilliant Hailey would be immune to his persuasive charms and hence those of his clone. 'Ah Jack when will you realize you are one hell of a force?' An intense vibration in his left hip pocket drew Daniel's attention to his pulsating cell phone. "Jackson."  
  
"Daniel, what have you got? Any sign of Hailey or the kid, yet?" When the morning had passed without a peep, Jack, unwilling to risk Hailey's cover with a phone call and conceding that they needed a plan B, had sent the men of SG-1 off to the high school as backup.  
  
Despite his icy calm, Daniel could hear the worry in his best friend's voice. He knew Jack had a soft spot for the diminutive officer. "Nothing yet, Jack."  
  
"Nada?" Jack repeated testily. "You're telling me that after three hours of recon you've got zip?"  
  
"Yep, that is what I'm telling you." Daniel tossed back unruffled. "Everything appears normal enough so far. Several buses and a few cars have lined up along the curb, so my guess is that the last bell should be ringing soon. Then I figured I'd mix in with the other parents and check inside." Not wanting to intervene prematurely, Daniel had positioned himself in the small park across from the school.  
  
The sedate and lightly wooded area provided a birds-eye view of anyone coming or going through the front door of the two-story building. Maintaining a nonchalant interest in the school, Daniel sat casually thumbing through the latest journals and treatises he'd been intending to catch up on.  
  
"Sounds reasonable," Jack agreed. If, as he suspected, the kid had convinced Hailey to ride out the day hoping for more intel, then they would both be sauntering out of the school soon. "Where's Teal'c?"  
  
Jack's voice had taken on that silky quality, the one that every member of the SGC, including Daniel, had learned to dread. No doubt, when papa O'Neill finally got his hands on Hailey and 'the kid' they were in for one hell of a dressing down. "He's got the perimeter." Teal'c (disguised as a gardener with a cap pulled low over his brow) employed a large set of power clippers, trimming the hedges surrounding the rear of the school. Maintaining contact via radio, its barely perceptible receiver tucked in his left ear; he'd monitored Daniel's side of the conversation with O'Neill. "All is calm Daniel Jackson, only a handful of youngsters have removed themselves to the sports field behind the building. They appear to be engaged in competition."  
  
Jack overheard T's report. "Keep your eyes peeled. I've got a bad feeling about all this."  
  
A bell sounded off in the distance and Daniel sat up a bit straighter. The doors opened and teenagers began to stream outward to the waiting buses. "Looks like I'm on Jack, call you ASAP." Severing the connection, he stood and headed across the street making his way slowly to the school.  
  
Jack returned his attention to the reports he'd been wading through when his worry had gotten the better of him.  
  
Once again, SG-11 had barely made it back from P34-5987 after taking enemy fire. Luckily none of them sustained any serious injuries. While he was grateful for that little mercy, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the mission.  
  
SG-12's provocative report on their findings of the folks on P97-3345 quickly snagged his interest; seems they were a colony of nudists. Evidently they were of Norse descent and all in fine physical condition. The report went on to list their society's unique views on procreation.  
According to their customs, only the most battle-scarred and experienced of their warriors were allowed to mate with the most desirable females. Apparently, gray hair was all the rage on P97-3345. The younger men-folk had to be content with the ministrations of a few camp following types.  
  
'Ah, O'Neill now there's a planet you should add to your list of official good will destinations. Never hurt for the man in charge to commune with the locals, good diplomacy and all that. Of course you'd go in as an observer, 'cause exposing your own backside to a bunch of stunning and oh so very naked women just is not your style. Nope, nothing more unnatural than a bare-assed General; oh for crying out loud O'Neill, face it - there's nothing natural at all about you as a General, you're making this up as you go along!'  
  
Jack was still getting used to the idea of sitting here behind a desk and letting others do the fieldwork. How had he allowed himself to get stuck here behind this shiny lump of wood anyway?  
  
What he needed was someone to rail at, someone to listen to his impending diatribe. Better yet, he needed a distraction, some action, something constructive to do.  
  
Sensing he was not alone, Jack glanced up into the avid gaze of Lt. Colonel Sam Carter. Speaking of Norse heritage and fine physical condition… waving her inside, Jack put aside SG-12's report. "How was your flight, Carter?"  
  
Sam made her way inside the strangely neat office, curious as to which teams' report had so entranced her usually perceptive C.O. (she'd been leaning just outside his open office door undetected for almost two minutes.) Taking the seat he'd indicated, she studied him surreptitiously.  
  
She hadn't failed to notice the slightly wistful undercurrent in his mild tone. "I believe you'd say, it was sweet, Sir."  
  
"Excellent." Jack contemplated her remark for a moment. "Learn anything new about our little cabal?"  
  
"Cabal, Sir?" Sam was a bit taken aback.  
  
'Ah, word games.' Jack tilted his head to one side and arched a brow. He loved this sort of thing. "Cabal, Carter…intrigue, chicanery, ruse, plot…"  
  
It was still a bit bizarre, the whole idea of her Colonel, now a General, being 'the man' so to speak. The added responsibility had changed him in subtle ways, but he was ever the same slightly irreverent and sarcastic, well of power and compassion she admired; the old shorthand form of communication between them, still intact.  
  
Ignoring his dry wit, Sam answered his query. "I'm afraid the intel Agent Barrett's people have dug up so far is still woefully incomplete. If there is a plot then it's been very carefully orchestrated. I've very little to add to the information I relayed to you on the phone this morning, Sir."  
  
Warming up to her subject, Sam the scientist began to postulate. "Given the mention of this GEOM Corporation, I think we can safely assume that it is an international operation…"  
  
Jack was growing a tad impatient: so, nothing new to add then. Jack O'Neill rule number eight -- less is more. They'd served together going on eight years now, yet both Carter and Daniel still couldn't seem to get a handle on that particular notion. He'd confided to Teal'c that it must be a scientist thing.  
  
Jack preferred short and sweet explanations; he was perfectly capable of theorizing on his own. 'The real question is: who in their right mind would want a piece of my DNA and why?' "Carter."  
  
Nope, he hadn't really changed at all. "Well, Sir, it's going to take a lot more digging and a good deal more time, before I can adequately ascertain if there really is a threat to you and from whom."  
  
Someone who didn't know O'Neill well would have judged his lack of reaction and slightly glazed over look as vacuous, but Sam Carter knew better. Facing unknown perils and impending doom alongside this man had taught her to never underestimate his direct and usually simplistic approach to any problem.  
  
While on the surface he might not appear to have much of a reaction, inside that complex mind of his, she knew he was assessing the problem from every angle and running through strategies. He hadn't come as far as he had and through as many dangerous and life threatening, not to mention planet threatening, situations by being the dullest knife in the drawer. Many of her own miraculous ideas had begun with a deceptively naïve comment from those rugged and oh so very sexy lips of his.  
  
Still, unenlightened and less observant folks often thought O'Neill was peculiar, dense and sadly lacking in the intelligence department. It was a reputation he'd carefully cultivated because it amused him and it helped him maintain some sense of privacy; but most importantly, because deception was a damned useful tool.  
Sam tilted her head to one side, a half-smile on her lovely face. "What have you discovered here, Sir?"  
  
Refocusing his gaze, O'Neill favored her with a twisted grin. "I've discovered that I am perfectly capable of underestimating myself."  
  
Confused, Sam lost her smile. "Sir?"  
  
Leaning back in his cushy leather chair, Jack rocked back slightly. "Well Carter, it would seem I miscalculated my appeal." Sam narrowed her eyes, lost in thought, still failing to grasp the meaning behind his cryptic response. "Afraid I'm still not following you, Sir."  
  
"You know, old Thor could've warned me, Carter. He could have said, 'O'Neill, your insistence on saving a Xerox copy of yourself is going to rear up and bite you on the ass someday.' He should've made it clear to me what a pesky thing having two of the same person would be, never mind the age difference." Relishing his oratory, O'Neill punctuated his speech with adamant hand gestures. "Did he do that Carter, that little gray buddy of mine? Ach, no, he just acceded to my wishes and now I've got to clean up the mess."  
  
Still a bit unclear as to just what had brought all this on, but realizing something involving the physically more youthful version of her commander had recently annoyed him, Sam interrupted. "With all due respect Sir, I'd hardly refer to Jon's existence as a mess."  
  
Catching his dubious grimace, the haze began to clear and she squelched her amusement. "I take it he has done something to irritate you, Sir."  
  
The crooked smile and dangerous gleam in O'Neill's eye warned her that such an event was nothing in the face of Jon's current transgression. "Worse, Carter. Ditto-boy has quite possibly put not only himself in grave danger, but Lieutenant Hailey as well."   
  
Lieutenant Hailey had gone about the rest of the school day like any other substitute teacher with one exception: she'd checked in with Jon after each class session ended. So far, he'd reported nothing untoward. As her rendezvous time with her commander came and went, she worried over her failure to report his counterpart's little side mission to the General. As each uneventful hour crawled by and she maintained her silence, her guilt escalated; and yet, she agreed with young Jon's estimation of the problem.  
  
If perpetrators unknown were after General O'Neill or his clone, then it made perfect sense to maintain normalcy, at least until they showed their hand.  
  
Besides, should someone threaten the General's carbon copy, Hailey was fully prepared to defend him to the death. She'd carefully tucked her sidearm inside her loose fitting skirt, along with an extra clip. An inexcusable offense and one which would lead to dismissal and most likely prosecution for any educator, but Hailey, wasn't really a teacher.  
  
The main difficulty was maintaining her charade while still keeping tabs on Jon within the confines of the large school. Thank heaven for cell phones.  
  
Hailey casually walked along the almost empty corridor, she had a thirty-minute lunch break before her next round of classes. Having overheard a few of her students whispering about this back hallway, calling it one of the best and most isolated of make-out spots, she'd figured it was the perfect location to make a clandestine call. So far, the only person she'd encountered was an elderly janitor, busily tending to the already spotless tile floor.  
  
Mr. Hennessey had been in charge of keeping the high school shipshape since he'd left the Navy thirty years before. He knew the comings and goings of most of the thirty odd teachers and several hundred students who traipsed these halls on a daily basis. He tended to this particular hall each and everyday at this time because it was empty of traffic. Now in the span of only a minute or two, both the new teacher and one of the new students had marched across his freshly mopped floor, each headed for the out of the way restrooms around the corner. Perturbed, he set about retracing their steps with his trusty mop.  
  
The hairs on the back of Hailey's neck stood at attention; there was someone besides the industrious maintenance engineer watching her. Scanning the hallway for a possible threat -- she found none. Using the training O'Neill had drilled into her, she ducked into the ladies room and turned on several of the water taps, then double-checked the stalls to make sure that the place was deserted. Confident she was alone, Hailey flipped open her cell phone and hit the speed dial.  
  
Outside the ladies room door a shadow lingered, ear pressed to the smooth surface. The muffled sound of running water was the only thing discernable through the thick wood.  
  
The morning had crawled by for Jon O'Neill. After the initial high he'd experienced once he'd convinced Hailey to buy into his plan, he'd gone on to his morning classes with a sense of anticipation, hoping for some excitement. 'Admit it O'Neill, you're fed up with the mundane normalcy of your existence, let's hope that someone out in Washington isn't just crying wolf.'  
  
As he strolled out of latest class, Jon decided to seek out Bob Morse before he trudged off to spend his free period in the dungeon known as detention. It would be easy enough to find old Bob as he generally sat alone at the back of the cafeteria.  
  
Surprisingly, today Bob was surrounded by a bevy of young females.  
  
Catching sight of Jon's approach Bob excused himself from his new admirers and rushed over to waylay his approach. "Hey O'Neill…"  
  
Apologies had never been an O'Neill strong suit. "Ah, hey there Bob, I ah, well… about my comments this morning… you see."  
  
"I admit that at first I was pretty embarrassed, but it turns out you did me a favor." Bob slapped Jon on the back with a smile.  
  
Stunned, Jon arched a brow. "Okay…"  
  
"You see those four girls over there? Each and every one of them wanted to tell me how rotten they thought your remarks were." Bob aimed his thumb over one shoulder indicating the table where four co-eds eyed them curiously. "Do you know how long I've been trying to get up the nerve to talk to Ann Pritchard? Forget it O'Neill, you did me a favor."  
  
Chuckling over the fickle emotions of the average adolescent, Jon bid the new 'ladies man' goodbye and took his lunch to the detention area.  
  
After agreeing to check in with Hailey, he'd switched his cell phone to the vibration mode. A soft humming inside Jon's left hip pocket alerted him to her latest call. Ducking his head behind his open book, he lowered his voice to a mere whisper. "O'Neill."  
  
Hailey's body immediately shifted into full alert. "Why are you whispering Jon, are you in danger?"  
  
"No, I'm in detention. I'm supposed to be in trouble, remember?" Noting the sudden interest of the stern proctor, Jon slid down further into his seat and hissed, "Look, everything is fine, check in again in an hour."  
  
Quietly snapping the phone shut, Jon returned it to his pocket making a cursory scan of the room.  
  
Other than a smirking freshman in the corner, no one was paying him the slightest bit of attention. Biting into the boring meatloaf sandwich he'd purchased in the cafeteria, Jon ran through what little information Hailey had been able to provide.  
  
'Okay O'Neill if you wanted to snatch a sixteen year old from school how would you go about it? Pulling any kid out of a class would cause too much of a stir. Making a grab between classes was out; someone would take note and raise the alarm. Nope, I'd make my move immediately after school, when the largest number of people were milling about. It'd be easy enough to make like a parent and blend in. Yep, it's the perfect time to strike. Hell, something similar had happened to Carter when (that rat bastard) Adrian Conrad's goons had snatched her just outside her health club, and Carter was no pushover. Well O'Neill, it's not gonna happen to you! Forewarned is forearmed.'  
  
Glancing at his watch, Jon realized he had a little less than two hours to formulate a viable counter strategy.  
  
Lost in thought, Jon's gaze wandered idly over a large black man trimming the hedges one story below the open second floor window of the detention room. The fellow had a cap pulled so low over his brow that his sunglasses were almost askew. The big guy looked amazingly like a certain Jaffa whom he still sorely missed. Sitting up straighter, Jon gave the man a closer look. 'Hot damn it is Teal'c and if the T'man was here than the rest of SG-1 isn't far behind. This puts a whole new spin on the game.'   
  
At 1400 hours Hailey's last class of the day filed past her and out of her life forever. Jon O'Neill's little display of irreverence hadn't been her only encounter with a wiseacre today. Teenagers, jeez! Teaching high school reminded her of the summer she'd spent wrangling horses on her Cousin Ethan's ranch. Over those long dry hot days, he'd taught her how to break a few wild mustangs and she could honestly say that experience had been less taxing. 'Get a grip Hailey, you still have one more bronco to rope today, and he is a maverick!'  
  
Jon had informed her of his schedule of classes for the day, assuring her cockily that this final period was 'perfectly safe.' The school had recently added a baking class and Jon had signed up. Imagining an O'Neill wearing a frilly apron and kneading dough, she'd had to cough to cover a guffaw.  
  
Suspecting she was amused, Jon refused to be baited and asked that she 'pop in' for a sample of his cinnamon swirl rolls after her last class. Many of the teachers did the same and it would be seen as perfectly natural if she were one of them. Jon gave her brief directions to the classroom and indicated the room number.  
  
Hailey arrived to find a small group of teachers crowded around the door, including Principal Howard, greedily nibbling on pastries and grinning with satisfaction.  
  
Catching sight of her, Howard nodded his head. "Ah, Miss Hailey, did you come down to sample our resident Emeril's newest recipe?"  
  
Offering her a plate with a steaming roll, he added, "Jon has a bright future ahead of him in the pastry business. Here, have one of mine."  
  
Accepting the deliciously aromatic confection, an incredulous Hailey bit into it gingerly. Oh, wow! It tasted fantastic. "Jon baked this?"  
  
Tilting a head toward the door, Mr. Howard moved aside and allowed her to peep into the large classroom.  
  
Furnished much as a large restaurant kitchen would be, its vast array of cooking accoutrements shone in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the big windows.  
  
Surrounding the pastry-laden counters, approximately a dozen teenage girls and one elderly woman were gathered around the lone male occupant of the room, Jon O'Neill. This female contingent was quite obviously making a fuss over the grinning man of the hour; Jon, it would seem, was one very popular baker.  
  
Leaning in conspiratorially, Mrs. Hopkins, history teacher and victim of her sweet tooth confided, "His sticky buns are my absolute favorite! Since our Jon started whipping up his irresistible creations, I've gained five pounds!"  
  
Hailey thought that the reed thin woman could stand to gain a few more pounds. "Really? When did all this start?"  
  
Swallowing her latest bite of sweet, Mrs. Hopkins shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not sure exactly, he's been at it since he first transferred in last year. Mrs. Bennett, the cooking teacher, thought it was a tad strange for a boy of his years to embrace the culinary arts with such gusto, but as Jon puts it 'people gotta eat!'"  
  
"When our Jon-boy is cooking they surely do!" A rather hefty bleached blonde concurred, stuffing a roll dripping with icing into her mouth.  
  
Flabbergasted, Hailey reflected that the remark echoed something she'd once heard the original O'Neill say in the commissary at the base. "Okay, so he has been baking away for what, a year or more?"  
  
"Last year's class was straightforward cooking. Originally, he was forced to attend as a punishment. You see the scamp had caused a bit of a stir with one of his practical jokes and we thought he should make amends by becoming Mrs. Bennett's assistant. Little by little, Jon just eased into place as the star of the class." Mr. Howard rocked back on his heels with pride. Jon really was a wonder, such a masculine fellow and yet so very comfortable with his feminine side. "Mrs. Bennett is very fond of him and when she realized he enjoyed baking, she decided this year's classes should be all about 'creating confection that is perfection.' I know it's trite, but Mrs. Bennett is a closet romantic."  
  
Well if that doesn't beat them all, Hailey thought. Judging by the happily munching group leaning here and there outside her door, Mrs. Bennett wasn't the only teacher here who had a fondness for Jon O'Neill. She wondered if the General was a secret gourmet as well.  
  
Clare Wellington slouched in her seat. It was difficult to muster up even the smallest interest in the bland, boring and bald, Mr. Jacobs's English class. The man had all the charisma of a snail.  
  
A faint, slightly sweet, and very enticing fragrance, gently wafted in through the open classroom door. Mr. Jacobs paused mid-sentence and inhaled deeply. "Oh! Wow! Smells like cinnamon rolls."  
  
"Guess, Chef O'Neill is at it again, sir." A beefy football-hero-type advised disparagingly.  
  
"Ah yes, the baking class." The aroma suddenly seemed to envelop the entire room and Mr. Jacobs's insipid visage transformed with delight. "Class dismissed."  
  
"Yes!" Mr. beef gathered his books and followed Clare into the hall. "Somebody remind me to thank O'Neill for the reprieve."  
  
The beefcake wasn't the only one who wanted a word with Jon O'Neill.  
  
Using her nose as her guide, Clare quickly found the source of the heady smell. Taking in the crowded doorway and the flow of people in and out, she eased inside the classroom.  
  
Sidling up next to the man of the hour, Clare whispered in Jon's ear. "What happened this morning? I didn't see you at lunch and Mary Conner told me that you had to spend your free period in detention."  
  
Pulling another tray of rolls out of the hot oven, Jon set it on a cooling rack. Removing the protective oven mitt, he used a large spatula to transfer them onto a platter. He'd leave these cool for a couple minutes and then cover them with icing. "Yep, that Miss Hailey is a real piece of work. I've got detention again after school and I'm afraid I'll have to pass on the study session and dinner, sorry Clare."  
  
Clare schooled her innocent features into one of sympathy and concern, but inside she was furious. His adolescent behavior and Hailey's interference had ruined her plans.  
  
'Stay cool Clare. Okay so you miscalculated a bit, you may still be able to salvage things.' Taking his hand into her own, she squeezed it. "Oh, no. My Mom was going to make a huge meal. Maybe you could come over after…"  
  
Jon squeezed her hand in return, turning it over intending to place a fresh roll into it; he noticed the thick calluses on her thumb and trigger finger.'Well that's a tad strange.' Winding his fingers with hers instead, he stroked her palm continuing his exploration. "I'm sorry, but detention lasts till five and then my uncle will be collecting me, thanks to Miss Hailey, I've got some explaining to do."  
  
Clare gave him a searching soulful look. "Oh, you live with your uncle?"  
  
Pulling her off to the side of the room, Jon grimaced. "Not exactly, my folks… Well… they're gone and my uncle… well you might say he looks out for me. Mr. Howard phoned him and told him about my detention. He is not happy."  
  
"Oh, Jon, no! Does he have a foul temper?" Clare inquired, her voiced laced with sympathy.  
  
"Temper?" Jon smirked.  
  
No doubt, Jack was royally pissed that Jon had waylaid the young Lieutenant. "Let's just say I'm not going to like the lecture or the extra chores he'll heap on me."  
  
"Oh, Jon, I'm sorry." Clare punctuated her sympathy by pulling him behind a large cabinet and coaxing his head down for a kiss.  
  
Jon allowed her to kiss him, a thrill of anticipation causing his pulse to race. Oddly, he wasn't experiencing his usual feeling of hesitation with Clare (a fact, which relieved him mightily). Up to now, whenever his burgeoning body had responded to one of his current peers in this manner, he'd experienced more than a twinge of guilt.  
  
He'd made a couple of unsuccessful forays into the high school dating world with an eager cheerleader or two. Perversely his memories kept getting in the way, memories of what it had been like to exchange intimacies with a mature woman. Thus, he'd expected the usual chaste and artless teenage kiss. What he got was essentially a tonsillectomy; and, an awakening.  
  
This was no untried and inexperienced teenage girl kissing him senseless. This was an experienced woman. This kiss and those calluses confirmed that; a fission of dread wound its way up his spine. The soft purring in the back of her throat also added to his new conviction.  
  
'Well isn't this just peachy O'Neill? So…not a high school student…nope, more likely a graduate of black ops 101. Odds are ten to one, you're playing tonsil hockey with one of the conspirators old Uncle Jack is so worried about. Sweet! Play it cool and reel her in.'  
  
Deepening the kiss, Jon's adolescent body began to respond with definite enthusiasm. 'Good, let her think she has the upper hand.' Feigning embarrassment, he stepped back breaking the kiss. "Wow, Clare that was…"  
  
Clare had felt his rising interest. Umm… yes, he would be very easy to manipulate. "Look Jon, once he settles down maybe your uncle will allow you to come over for supper and study tomorrow night. Why not ask him?"  
  
Pulling a slip of paper out of her pocket, Clare moved to write something down and then handed the note to him. "Call me tonight and let me know. I'll ask my Mom to whip up her famous home-made veggie pizza."  
  
Stepping behind a waist high counter, Jon accepted the paper. Clare's number and address were neatly printed across the small square. "I'll give it a go. Either way, I'll call you later."  
  
Turning and heading away, swaying her round bottom seductively, Clare tossed back. "Please do, Jon. We have a lot to talk about, you and I."  
  
'Well O'Neill, if you had any doubts, that little display sure put them to rest. What girl of sixteen wiggles her fanny like that? None you've encountered so far old man. Not even Carter on her best day ever shook her six like that! Gad!'  
  
From her position at the door, Hailey had watched the encounter between Jon and an attractive young woman she clearly remembered from the physics class this morning. The girl's stunned reaction to Jon's irreverence stood out in her mind. As the two disappeared behind a large cupboard, she shifted her stance, the new angle allowing her to keep them in sight.  
  
At first glance, it looked like any other conversation between teens, but something passed between them when they'd kissed. Hailey was no stranger to the potent power of the feminine arts. Jon's blush and body language telegraphed both discomfort and physical awareness.  
  
Using the milling crowd to conceal her somewhat, Hailey made her way inside the classroom and moved within a few feet of the pair.  
  
As the girl sashayed past her, Hailey studied her smug features intently.  
  
There was something very off about this particular schoolgirl. She moved with a fluid grace and confidence that belied her youthful countenance. In fact, she walked on the balls of her feet like a seasoned huntress and Hailey wondered if Jon realized he was her prey.  
  
Still striving to control his body's response to the kiss, Jon caught sight of Hailey's entrance into the classroom. Maintaining his rebellious aversion to the new substitute teacher, he ignored her and returned to his baked goods. Once the rolls had been iced, he had just enough time to cleanup before the final bell sounded indicating the end of school for the day.  
  
Hailey engaged the fond Mrs. Bennett in idle conversation and studiously avoided looking at Jon. However, once the classroom emptied and they were alone, she moved in to speak with him. "Jon, who was that girl?"  
  
Leaving the park, Daniel affected what he hoped was a parental façade. Thrusting his reading material beneath his arm, he tossed his coffee container in a trash bin and crossed the street.  
  
As he moved between a bus and car, he noticed a rather pretty blonde young lady and a tall rough looking character engaged in what Daniel the linguist interpreted as a heated discussion.  
  
"I'm telling you, he doesn't suspect a thing." The girl insisted with a hiss.  
  
Pushing the girl roughly into the front seat of a black sedan, the tall man snapped. "Tell it to your Daddy." Then, he jumped into the backseat. The sedan sped away, its wheels screeching over the asphalt.  
  
Feigning disinterest, Daniel took careful note of the sedan's license plate number. Scratching a nonexistent itch on his left shoulder, he pressed the switch of his concealed radio. "Ah Teal'c, we may have a situation."  
  
Teal'c's soft voice tingled his ear. "I am proceeding into the rear of the building as agreed Daniel Jackson."  
  
Jon pulled Hailey over to the large windows. Using his chin, he pointed out the muscular black gardener moving with deceptive lethargy toward the rear door of the school.  
  
Wide eyed, Hailey recognized Teal'c. "Jeez, couldn't they give him a better cover than a gardener?"  
  
"Looks like the General sent in backup." He informed her with soft irony. "If Teal'c is here then Daniel and Carter aren't far behind. As for the girl, supposedly she is one Clare Wellington, a new sixteen year old honor student."  
  
So, Jon had noticed something about the gal as well. "Supposedly?"  
  
A door slammed nearby, and Jon put a finger to his lips. If Clare was a plant, then his detention had foiled her plot to get him alone and it was highly probable she'd gone to plan B.  
  
Using well-remembered hand signals, Jon motioned for Hailey to follow his lead as he crept near the door, making sure to keep them from direct view of the corridor.  
  
Positioning his body so that it was flush with the wall, Jon peeped around the doorjamb. The corridor appeared to be empty. "I'll repeat this only once Hailey and then I expect you to remember; this body is that of an untried adolescent, but this mind and my experience is that of a fifty year old military man. No child of sixteen kisses like that, nor do they wiggle and gyrate their derrière in such a profoundly seductive manner." He told her quietly.  
  
A similar thought had occurred to Hailey. Still, confirmation never hurt. "And we are creeping around sir, because?"  
  
Sparing her a sidelong glance, Jon nodded, grabbing her hand and pulling her along the deserted corridor. "Lose the sir, Hailey, I'm not your commanding officer any longer."  
  
Stopping short, Jon pulled her into a small alcove and listened intently. Keeping his voice low, he addressed her query. "We are employing stealth in order to avoid the mysterious Miss Wellington and any of her allies."  
  
Jon cocked an ironic eyebrow and pulled her along once more. "Clare isn't the only one I'm hoping to elude. It would be better for you if we made our way back to the SGC on our own."  
  
Understanding his line of thinking and touched by his concern, Hailey tucked her small hand into his long fingered artistic one a little more firmly. "I appreciate your concern Jon, but you know as well as I do, it's too late."  
  
"Indeed." A dark shadow moved swiftly to intercept and apprehend the two from an adjacent corridor. "Lieutenant Hailey, Jon O'Neill, General O'Neill has been most concerned for your safety."  
  
Teal'c had watched the pairs' stealthy movements as they crept cautiously down the short corridor. O' Neill's other-self moved with familiar cat-like agility, reacting with his habitual petulance to this unexpected interference.  
  
"T' for crying out loud, are you trying to give me a coronary?" Jon's attempts to wrench himself free of the big Jaffa's grip proved futile.  
  
Maintaining his impassive regard, Teal'c merely raised an eyebrow. "Your heart muscle is in no danger young O'Neill. Cease your struggling; unlike Lieutenant Hailey, I will not be swayed. You will both accompany me to the SGC. General O'Neill wishes to have words with you."  
  
Despite his characteristically temperate delivery, Hailey felt blistered by Teal'c's disapproval. Busted. That is what she'd be after today! Busted back to what? Cadet? Maybe the General would allow her the dubious honor of cleaning the latrines with a toothbrush. Then again, if she'd obeyed her orders to the letter, they wouldn't have the lead they did now. "Teal'c you don't understand. Jon and I… we may have uncovered something."  
  
Rounding the corner of the dimly lit hall, the startled Dr. Jackson came face to face with the still squirming Jon O'Neill and one red faced missing Lieutenant, both in the ironclad custody of Teal'c.  
  
Jon had grown some since they'd last seen him, he looked even more like the Jack they knew and loved so well. Daniel couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with relief that the two were unharmed and much like any parent with a naughty child, irritated that they had caused so much worry. Evidently the luck of the Irish had transferred in the cloning process along with all the rest of Jack's skills. "Just what have you two delinquents uncovered?"  
  
Delinquents? Jon O'Neill resented both Daniel's tone and the term. "Hey there space monkey, it's been awhile. You know how much I love fishing, well I guess you could say we went trolling and got a nibble." The voice might be that of a squeaky pubescent, but the inflection was all too familiar. Laced with cool sarcasm, the once affectionate title caused Daniel's lips to tighten with annoyed comprehension.  
  
Okay, so they'd discovered something, but this O'Neill's little recalcitrant machinations had also landed Hailey in hot water. Exchanging a knowing look with Teal'c, Daniel assisted him in hustling the errant pair silently out the back door of the school.  
  
The athletic field's occupants were engrossed in their game and so, the foursome easily made their way to a large green truck. Teal'c herded Jon and Hailey into the back of the vehicle, where smoked glass would effectively obscure them. Daniel slid behind the wheel and Teal'c rode shotgun. Taking care to proceed at a sedate pace, hoping to continue to be unnoticed, they pulled out of the school lot and headed to Cheyenne Mountain.  
  
Sam Carter was still trying to put two and two together when the phone rang loudly. The General had been explaining Hailey's mission and his concerns regarding the security of his duplicate.  
  
Jack, still in mid-opus grabbed the receiver abruptly. "O'Neill."  
  
Teal'c moved the cell phone away from his sensitive ear. Judging from the icy quality of O'Neill's voice one could safely assume his exasperated mood had escalated. "O'Neill, we have retrieved the misdirected parcels."  
  
Jack felt the nagging knot in his stomach and the pain in his head ease. As always, his first priority was their safety. "Any problems T'? Are the packages intact?"  
  
"All is well, O'Neill." Teal'c confirmed with just a hint of smugness.  
  
"Put Hailey on the phone." O'Neill's voice had returned to its previous frigid state.  
  
Teal'c silently handed the phone back to the Lieutenant.  
  
Agitated, Hailey took a deep breath and put the small device to her ear. "Lieutenant Hailey here, Sir."  
  
O'Neill deliberately instilled quiet menace into his words. "Hailey, give me one good reason not to toss your butt in the brig."  
  
Clearing her voice, Hailey took the direct route. "General, Sir, we've uncovered one of the conspirators. She was posing as a high school student."  
  
Momentarily pacified, Jack's mind went into overdrive. "Put Teal'c back on the phone. And Hailey, we are not done with this conversation."  
  
Gulping, Hailey sat straighter in her seat. "Sir, yes, Sir."  
  
Teal'c accepted the proffered phone. "We shall return to base…" "Negative." O'Neill's command voice interrupted. "Take the maverick and his patsy to my place. Carter and I will meet you there directly… and Teal'c. Watch your six. "  
  
word count 6747 


	3. Jack Jumped

Jack Jumped… © By Cjay Candlestick Chronicles part three.  
  
Lieutenant Jennifer Hailey concentrated on the back of Dr. Jackson's head willing the normally understanding scholar to make eye contact with her in the rear-view mirror. She knew she was in serious trouble. A junior grade officer didn't just rewrite a direct order from her superior, unless the situation was life threatening. Yet, she was sure that she'd made the right call. If she could convince the two men in the front seat of that, they just might help her convince General O'Neill.  
  
Pleasing the General had become her number one priority. She really hated it that the man she respected most in this world was, more than likely, not only angry with her, but disappointed as well. She could hear his deceptively calm voice in her head asking why she'd disobeyed a direct order and dreaded her inadequate response.  
  
Daniel Jackson kept his eyes on the road deliberately refraining from making eye contact with either of the recalcitrant passengers.  
  
Daniel was all too aware that the silent plea in their eyes would sway him to run interference; and this was Jack's call. No, he had to remain objective. He couldn't let the fact that for him Jon was Jack (well close anyway) influence him. Daniel for his part had always (well mostly) trusted Jack's instincts. The fact that Jon had convinced Hailey to bend Jack's mandate a bit seemed not only in character, but somehow appropriate.  
  
As for Hailey, she was a military officer, and as a civilian (well, technically) he had to respect that she'd disobeyed an order. Perhaps after Jack heard the two offenders out, he would let Hailey off with a warning. Jack might be hard, but he was generally fair; Daniel counted on his sense of justice.  
  
Teal'c maintained his own counsel. The smaller version of his warrior brother had informed them in a most uncannily familiar way that his 'fishing expedition' had been the right call, and the fruits of said exploit well worth the elder O'Neill's wrath. Oddly Teal'c had to concur.  
  
The danger had proven to be minimal; the possible discovery of one of the agents involved in a plot against O'Neill, a most valuable result. However, it was for his leader and brother of the soul to decide if the intractable pair was to be pardoned or punished. Opening his cell phone, Teal'c entered the number for O'Neill's private line.  
  
Jon O'Neill sat loosely in the backseat of the large Ford truck allowing his body to sway with every turn. There was no point in arguing with either the big Jaffa or the oft-stubborn archaeologist; they had their orders.  
  
Teal'c held the small cell phone away from his ear as he checked in with his commander. The other occupants of the vehicle could clearly hear the General's frigid tone--he was more than a little furious.  
  
Following a brief exchange, the big warrior passed the phone to Hailey.  
  
Agitated, Hailey took a deep breath and put the small device to her ear. "Lieutenant Hailey here, Sir."  
  
Jon listened attentively, but was unable to hear the General's side of the conversation, as Hailey continued, "General, Sir, we've uncovered one of the conspirators…posing as a high school student."  
  
Jon could feel her unease and her body language telegraphed O'Neill's unbending displeasure. 'Damn it Jack,' Jon cursed under his breath and watched the junior officer's color pale even more as she listened to O'Neill's response.  
  
Gulping, Hailey sat straighter in her seat. "Sir, yes, Sir."  
  
Instead of returning both himself and Hailey to the base for their little meeting with his nibs they were to be summarily removed to his home; clearly O'Neill feared they might be intercepted en route to the base. Jon wondered if they'd be any safer hiding out at a private residence.  
  
Then again, if their unknown assailants accepted Jon's fictitious history this was the best course of action.  
  
Well it was a big if, but if the bogies did regard Jon as the orphan he portrayed then the O'Neill boys had the advantage. Jon figured that was what Jack was hoping for; or more precisely, gambling on. It's how he would have played it, and after all they were carbon copies of one another, right?  
  
Slipping his hand across the seat, Jon clasped Hailey's clammy, slightly trembling hand, giving it a squeeze. Turning her head his way, she gave him a tremulous smile. It dawned on him just how much giving in to his demands had cost her. 'Crap! O'Neill you're a selfish ass.' Contrite, Jon continued holding her hand, offering what little comfort he could.  
  
Jack hung up the phone. Opening his mouth to confer with Carter, he was interrupted by the deep claxon and then the whoosh of the Stargate, both heralding the swift arrival of Sergeant Walter Davis. "Excuse me, General, Ma'am, we're receiving an incoming transmission from SG-9."  
  
Jack's worried expression deepened. "They aren't due back till 0800 Monday."  
  
Walter barely concealed his long-suffering attitude. "Ah, yes, Sir. Major Thornton says the matter is urgent and he needs to confer with you ASAP, General."  
  
Waving the little Sergeant ahead of him as he moved swiftly toward the gate room, Jack turned to his Lt. Colonel. "Carter, you go ahead to my house and let Daniel and Teal'c know I'll be along directly. A driver will bring me out as soon as I deal with this little crisis."  
  
Torn between her orders and her concern over whatever calamity SG-9 had encountered, Sam agreed. "Yes, Sir."  
  
Unsure as to how well the General's larder would be stocked and knowing his appetite, Sam called ahead for Chinese take out, then headed up and out of the base.  
  
The trip to Jack O'Neill's suburban neighborhood proved to be quiet and thankfully uneventful. Just to be safe Daniel circled around and took a few of the back streets, hedging their bets. Finally convinced they hadn't been followed, he parked Jack's big Ford behind the O'Neill home.  
  
Teal'c stayed on the trio's six, as they'd cut through the large, slightly wooded backyard and entered the rustic dwelling through the backdoor. Once they were inside, he checked the perimeter, before making his way inside.  
  
Jon looked around the kitchen with a definite feeling of melancholy. Nothing had changed. It was just as he remembered it, neat and Spartan.  
  
Okay so it wasn't usually this tidy. O'Neill had to admit; he'd been known to grow an interesting assortment of fungi in his fridge now and again. Overall however, he'd always been a neat freak, liked to keep things simple and appreciated a clean refuge after getting so dirty hopping from planet to planet.  
  
Shaking off his feeling of déjà vu, Jon reached into the refrigerator and selected a cold bottle of beer. Twisting off the cap and flipping it into the sink, he headed towards the living room only to be intercepted and relieved of the Heineken by a less than amused Daniel.  
  
Daniel crinkled his brow in his usual ruminative manner. "Ah, Jon, I realize that you're well…don'tcha think that given the situation a soda is more appropriate?"  
  
"For crying out loud Daniel, you'd think I was a kid or something." Throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender, Jon returned to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of cola. "Fine, I'll maintain a sober attitude, at least until the old man shows."  
  
Teal'c followed him into the large paneled room arching his brow. "Indeed Jon O'Neill, I do not believe that the consumption of alcohol is beneficial for a body which is as yet, half-grown."  
  
Groaning, Jon plopped himself into his once favorite chair and covered his face with one long fingered hand. "Jeez, don't remind me."  
  
Hailey found the interaction between the three males comforting, her worries over what else the General would have to say faded slightly. It felt almost as if General O'Neill was here with them instead of his 'knockoff.' She noticed a similar awareness in Dr. Jackson's eyes. Catching his gaze, she lifted her brows as if to say, now you understand how easily one could be confused.  
  
Comprehending her unspoken petition, Daniel nodded. "I think we need to remind you, as well as ourselves, Jon. Otherwise we'll all end up in hot water along with Hailey."  
  
Rubbing his hand over his face, Jon squinted up at the man who had once been his closest friend and for whom he was now a virtual outcast. "Not to worry Dr. Jackson," He told him with soft bitterness. "I plan to make it very clear to Mon Général that I and I alone, am responsible for Hailey's deviation from the mission."  
  
Hearing the underlying pain in those words, Jennifer Hailey felt a deep regret. Here was a person (okay, a man's mind in a boy's body) whom she both revered and loved; who'd been forced to live out the rest of his days away from all that he had known and loved, simply because he was not the 'original.' It was heart rending and she marveled that Jon had adapted to his circumstances so well; her admiration soared.  
  
Daniel, always sensitive to Jack's unspoken feelings, also heard Jon's pain. He'd never been able to fully convince himself not to feel guilty over the way they'd tossed this version of his best friend aside. Oh, he knew it had been necessary, but that didn't make it right. Catching Teal'c's eye, Daniel wondered if he would ever be able to resign himself to Jon's fate.  
  
"Indeed you are not. Each of us must accept responsibility for our own actions Jon O'Neill." Teal'c had long ago reconciled their decision to distance themselves from Jon O'Neill. As a Jaffa he understood sacrifice; and yet, returning Daniel Jackson's gaze the dedicated warrior could not fully deny his unease. Abandoning the younger O'Neill would not be so easy this time.

SG-9's little crisis proved to be annoying and solvable. Their linguist had misinterpreted the local tribal elders' petition for Major Thornton to become a blood brother and pulled their weapons, just as the shaman had ventured to nick the Major's arm with a blade.  
  
Summoning another team as backup, General O'Neill made sure to choose one whose linguist was more fluent in Lakota, SG-7's Captain Matthew Hawk. "Walter, make a note about this latest incident in Captain Leslie's file and we'll have him spend some quality time with Dr. Jackson."  
  
SG-7 was technically on stand down for their yearly physicals, but Doc Brightman could poke them in the butt with her needles after this crisis had been averted.  
  
Thirty minutes after they'd hastened through the wormhole, SG-7's team leader made voice contact.  
  
Colonel Perry's tone held more than a tinge of pride as he reported back. "General, Sir, Captain Hawk has successfully ironed out the problem."  
  
Jack, his hands tucked in his pockets, tossed the ball back in Perry's court. "Any further recommendations, Perry?"  
  
"Yes, Sir. I believe our continued presence would be most beneficial, General. Hawk and the chief have really hit it off, Sir." Perry's voice held a smile.  
  
Jack caught Walter Davis's smirk and shrugged. "Right then, I'll expect you all back on Monday. O'Neill out."  
  
Rubbing his hands together in a gesture of accomplishment tinged with glee, Jack turned to his trusty little banty rooster of a sergeant. "Anything else pressing, Walter?"  
  
Looking up into O'Neill's tired face Walter took pity on him. The man had been working very hard since he'd taken over the SGC and today's new set of worries surely hadn't helped. "Nothing, General. Shall I order your car, Sir?"  
  
"That would be peachy, inform Major Kearney that he has the command." Jack called over his shoulder rushing from the room before the little dictator changed his mind.  
  
It seemed that every time O'Neill had tried to make a getaway lately, the little despot had chased after him crying 'urgent.' He appreciated the man's zeal, but wondered if Walter perceived the new General as superhuman.  
  
Walter watched the General's hasty retreat with a bemused smile. The irreverent O'Neill had always had a special place in his heart. His understated style and strength, commanded one's respect. So far, he'd proven to be a capable base commander, but Walter knew he needed help juggling the many duties of command; at least until he was fully broken in.  
  
Brigadier General Jack O'Neill discarded his rumpled BDU'S, briefly shedding the mantle of command. The stars on his shoulders weighed a great deal more heavily than the eagles which used to perch there and he enjoyed the light feeling of his civvies.  
  
Jack was tired. He was not looking forward to dealing with Hailey's insubordination or ditto-boy's self-satisfied attitude.  
  
That Jon would be smug was a given, it was exactly how Jack would have felt if the shoe were on the other foot. The kid had uncovered something and with no untoward effects to either himself or the Lieutenant; Jack had to give him that.  
  
It was the whole required punishment thing he'd have to dole out to Hailey that bothered him the most. If he were still Colonel O'Neill, he could have found a way to sidestep the impending disciplinary action, but he wasn't a Colonel anymore. Nope, he was the General, the man, the patriarch and the guy responsible for the masses.  
  
His team still came first. However, his team had grown significantly.  
  
Hailey should have known better, she could have gotten herself and carbon copy boy killed or worse. Jack had sent her in to protect the lad and she'd allowed her personal affection for her commander to sway her resolve. While Jack fully understood the error, General O'Neill could not allow her to repeat it. 'Okay O'Neill stop beating yourself up about this, get your butt home and just deal.'  
  
Slamming his locker, Jack headed up and out of the mountain. A car was awaiting him as he stepped from the last portal. The SF holding the door open for him was unfamiliar. Okay, they'd had to replace more than a few men following the battle with Anubis and given that he'd been in a state of deep freeze for a few months, Jack was still getting to know them all. Looking him over briskly, he noted the fellow's plain face was benign enough, his stance and smart salute correctly military. Taking in the man's nametag, Jack bit back a grin. 'Simpson, I wonder if his first name is Homer?'  
  
Returning the salute loosely, Jack slid into the backseat and closed his eyes. The headache he'd been battling all day pounded at him with a vengeance. "Home, James."  
  
"Sir, yes Sir." Simpson's raspy voice snapped smartly.  
  
Jack roused himself slightly; the fellow must be a heavy smoker. "Fighting a cold airman?"  
  
"Sir, yes Sir." The husky voice replied once again.  
  
"Chicken soup will fix you right up." Jack muttered sympathetically.  
  
"Sir, yes…"  
  
"Enough airman!" Jack interrupted, this guy must be a by the book type or a brown nose, either one was too much for O'Neill in his present condition. "I'm gonna take a little nap, give me a holler when we reach my street." Jack did his best to ignore the next round of 'sir, yes sir' and dozed off.  
  
Sam finally pulled into the General's driveway. Traffic had been in a tangle and a dark van had been dogging her every move all the way down the mountain. Once inside the heart of town, she'd taken several detours to shake her unknown shadow and doubled back several times just to be thorough. The circuitous route had added over fifty minutes to her trip, but she was convinced she'd lost the tail.  
  
Laden with several large bags of Chinese takeout, Sam hustled up the walk. She was both eager to see Jon and dreading the encounter. Had he changed over the past sixteen months as the General had? Or would he still be a miniature replica of her Colonel? Sam was about to tap on the door with her foot when a smiling Daniel Jackson opened it.  
  
Taking a couple of the big bags from Sam, Daniel inhaled hungrily and looked past her. "Yum, did you get Moo Goo Gai Pan? And where is Jack?"  
  
Sam gave him a mock frown. "Nice to see you too, Daniel. Crisis at the base, he'll be along ASAP."  
  
Stepping back thoughtfully, Daniel led the way into the kitchen and set the bags on the counter. "What sort of crisis are we talking…?"  
  
Placing her burden on the table, Sam shrugged. "I'm not too sure, something about SG-9 and the locals. I passed Colonel Perry hustling to the locker room as I left my office, most likely the General sent SG-7 in as backup. I'm guessing they needed Hawk to sort out one of Leslie's messes again."  
  
Groaning, Daniel removed a few cartons of aromatic food from the bags. "Great, you know what that means…Jack will assign him to me for more training."  
  
The mouthwatering aroma of the spicy food drew Teal'c into the room. Arching a brow, he bowed slightly and accepted a plate from Colonel Carter. "I was under the impression you enjoyed teaching Daniel Jackson."  
  
Caught, Daniel reflected briefly. "I do, Teal'c, what I don't enjoy is his continual impetuousness. When will he learn to rein in his zeal and look before he leaps?"  
  
"I used to ask myself that very question about another young scientist I once knew." Jon's voice, heavily laced with irony preceded his arrival.  
  
Sam hid her smile over the truth of those words behind a cough. "Hello Jon, it is good to see you…"  
  
Thrusting his hands into his pocket, Jon leaned against the doorjamb. "You too Carter. I assume you remembered the spicy shrimp?"  
  
"Of course, Sir…err…Jon." 'Oops.' Sam's flushed cheeks betrayed her embarrassment as she indicated a large container. Some things hadn't changed; he could still make her blush with just a look.  
  
Stepping forward to open the carton and pull out a set of chopsticks for him, Sam took in the changes in his physical appearance. Jon had grown at least a foot taller and filled out some, he looked even more like the O'Neill she'd first encountered in the briefing room over eight long years ago.  
  
Jon accepted the carton and chopsticks. "You're the best, Sam." He uttered softly, resisting the urge to give her a quick hug. He'd missed her.  
  
"Is the condemned prisoner allowed a last meal?" Jennifer asked lightly from the entryway. She was doing her best to keep things in perspective, but as the General's arrival approached it was getting harder.  
  
While the military side of Lt. Colonel Sam Carter was aware that she should be stern, empathy softened her reply. "Naturally, knowing you'd need fortitude I brought you sweet and sour chicken and crab rolls."  
  
Hearing the understanding in the Colonel's response, Hailey relaxed somewhat. "Thank you Ma'am. I am starving, the food they feed those kids at the school is worse than our mess."  
  
Sam glanced at her watch with a sigh. "We may as well eat. Looks like the General got tied up."  
  
The sedan jerked to a halt, pulling Jack roughly from his nap. Before he could react, the rear door was yanked open and an armed gunman slid swiftly in beside him. The vehicle jerked violently once more as it resumed speed.  
  
Jack O'Neill had compiled a long list of things that he hated over his fifty odd years; numbered among the top ten was a having a cliché bad guy poke a gun in his ribs, it tended to make him decidedly cranky. And this dude was certainly cliché. Despite deceptively clean white-capped teeth, spiffy threads and carefully slicked back hair, the gunman's breath smelled like sewage. "And you would be?"  
  
"Your worst nightmare ass-wipe." Stink-breath muttered menacingly.  
  
"That would be ass-wipe, Sir." Jack quipped.  
  
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your good knee?" Halitosis-boy inquired icily.  
  
Jack returned the man's frigid glare. "Been there, done that, got the tee shirt." 'Jeez, O'Neill, how original!'  
  
"The boss said he wasn't to be marked…yet." Raspy Simpson, tossed coldly over his shoulder. "Settle down Frankie, you'll get your chance to impress the General."  
  
Jack imagined he could hear music from an old gangster movie playing in the background. "Look, let's cut the godfather repartee and get down to business. What is it you boys want?"  
  
Chuckling, Frankie jammed the gun barrel painfully against Jack's ribs. "Why General O'Neill, Sir…All we want is a pound of your flesh."  
  
Jack was used to ignoring pain. He'd been tortured by the best of them. "So sorry, don't have any to spare. In fact, the Doc has been after me to bulk up a bit…thinks I'm too thin…Always muttering about how baggy my uniforms seem to be..."  
  
"You're one sarcastic mother aren't you?" Frankie snapped the hard metal into Jack's ribs with a bit more gusto this time. "Well then General, I guess you've got something to be afraid of."  
  
"Gad! You ended that sentence with a preposition, bastard!" Jack knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he just couldn't.  
  
"Think you're something special don'tcha you O'Neill?" Cracking the gun against Jack's left knee, Frankie leaned in closer and hissed. "Shut your hole fly-boy. You won't be so cocky once the boss lets me educate you."  
  
'Crap! Okay, that hurt.' Jack rolled his eyes and bit back a caustic retort. The sedan's speed had increased considerably, taking the winding mountain road at a risky pace. Focusing his gaze over the odoriferous Frankie's shoulder, Jack recognized the route. A light rain had begun to fall. Unless he missed his guess, they'd be coming to an area with several hairpin turns; the vehicle would have to slow up or the driver would lose control.  
  
Feigning passivity, Jack pressed his body away from the gun and Frankie's offending scent, affecting a whine. "Okay, okay you win. Just lay off the knees will ya?"  
  
Snorting, Frankie relaxed and settled back in the seat, his gun still pressed against Jack's side. "Hear that Avery? The tough guy has a weak spot."  
  
"I heard. Now lay off him, Frankie. You two are distracting me and this road is treacherous enough when its dry…gets slippery as a greased pig in this kind of weather." Raspy complained.  
  
Jack took advantage of Frankie's momentary distraction, noting that both rear doors remained unlocked. Odds were, he'd have only one chance and he wasn't about to blow it.  
  
As the rocketing vehicle took a sudden turn, its wheels slid on the slick pavement and the sedan veered sharply. Raspy attempted to maintain control, while Frankie, having been knocked away from O'Neill's side, struggled to remain in his seat. Jack took his chance.  
  
Yanking the rear door open, Jack O'Neill, unyielding survivor, threw his body outward. Tucking into a ball, his body launched itself into space at break-neck speed.  
  
Jack hit the asphalt hard, his velocity taking him rolling up and over the steep embankment. Unable to stop, he continued to plummet over a crag and down into the darkness beyond.  
  
The sedan continued onward, careening out of control; finally slamming into the jagged wall of the mountainside, its high-speed impact causing the crushed remains to bounce off the granite face, and then plunge over a cliff into the abyss below.  
  
Jack's momentum took him flailing and skidding, tumbling out of control, over the rough terrain.  
  
Unable to slow his fall, a now very battered General O'Neill tried to relax and move with the impetus of his descent; finally, smacking head first into a large pine tree and coming to an abrupt halt.  
  
Stunned, Jack lay there, numbly struggling to regain his wind; amazed he was still alive and hesitant to inventory his injuries.  
  
He was lying on his back, his face turned upward into the misty rain. Finally able to take a deep breath, he inhaled the sharp iron scent of blood and wondered if his Irish luck was going to help him through this time.  
  
He'd distinctly heard the snap of a gunshot as he'd hurled himself from the moving car. While he hadn't felt an impact, he had to admit that he'd been a tad preoccupied at the time. Jack hoped the car's movement had thrown off Frankie's aim. However, the screaming pain in his left side suggested otherwise.  
  
The nagging headache he'd been fighting all day hadn't improved; in fact, the agonizing ache had escalated into the unbearable zone. Jack wondered what Janet would have to say to him once he crossed over to the other side. That she'd meet him was a given, she'd always been there when he'd needed her in the past.  
  
Groaning, Jack tried to stave off his rising nausea. His head was spinning, his vision seemed to shrink, and the fading light of dusk narrowed. Jack wondered if he'd fallen into a tunnel. The world turned a dusky black and he knew no more.  
  
Tbc in part four... The Art of Misdirection. 


	4. Jack Whumped Over

**Jack Whumped Over…**

_ Candlestick Chronicles part four_.

(**c) _By Cjay_  
  
**A trickle of sweat made its way down Clare Wellington's ramrod straight spine. Despite her outward calm, she was more than a little terrified of her 'daddy'- a man who gave new meaning to the words cruel, heartless and sinister.  
  
Damien Wellington smiled coldly and repeated his query softly. "Once again Clare, my darling, exactly when is your young admirer Jon supposed to call? It's well after seven p.m."  
  
Clare suppressed a shudder. Damien's smile never seemed to reach his slate gray eyes. "I am confident Jon will call as soon as he is able."  
  
Wellington's long bony fingers formed a steeple as he rested them against his thin lips. "Hmm. I have yet to meet the man, who could resist your ample charms my sweet, let alone a mere adolescent; still, he is an O'Neill. Perhaps, he is as resilient and cunning as his namesake."  
  
Clare resisted the urge to squirm in her chair, pushing aside thoughts of the punishment she would endure should Jon O'Neill fail to phone her.  
  
Throughout the years she had been his 'daughter' Damien had honed his skill in inflicting pain to an art. "The night is still young Daddy. Jon confided to me that his uncle was quite upset with his antics."  
  
"Either way, I win." Rising from his chair, Damien snaked his way behind Clare, running his clammy hands over her bare shoulders.  
  
Leaning down, he brushed his withered lips against her cheek. "Should the little bastard neglect to contact you, I will take great delight in using my considerable skills to expand your education."  
  
Memories of previous forms of instruction caused Clare's pulse to leap and her lovely eyes dilated with wild fear.  
  
Damien experienced a surge of satisfaction; very little brought him true pleasure these days. "Never fear, I shall be very careful not to mark your tender flesh this time my love, but it is important that you understand the pain your inadequacy will cost me. O'Neill is a very valuable commodity."  
  
A soft whimper escaped Clare's throat. Unfortunately, she understood her daddy's aberrant tastes all too well. 'Please Jon,' she prayed, 'call me.'  
  
&&&  
  
"Okay Jon, now that we've satisfied our appetites for food, I've been wondering about something." Daniel Jackson had that mischievous twinkle in his eye, his lips twitched in a half smile of bemusement.  
  
Jon O'Neill found the familiar expression Daniel wore both irritating and endearing. Unable to squelch his next thought, he clenched his fists - if Danny really was so interested where had he been? Jon had not seen the erstwhile little geek since Jack had dropped him off at school over eighteen months ago. He totally understood the original O'Neill's discomfort and need to distance himself from his clone, but Danny's rejection had hurt more than Jon allowed himself to admit. "Gee, what an unusual occurrence, Daniel Jackson wondering about something…how freaking bizarre."  
  
Refusing to be cowed by Jon's sarcastic retort, Daniel, determined to forge a renewed bond with the stripling who was and wasn't his best friend, charged on. "I'm interested in just how you've enjoyed your return to the world of academia."  
  
Jon bit back another snide remark. It was no use, once the nosey meddling side of his personality reared its over-intelligent yet, oh so obtuse head, Danny was like a dog with a bone. Snorting, Jon closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Counting to ten, he tried to rein in his annoyance and failed. "Gad! I haven't seen 'hide nor hair' of any of you for over a year and the first thing you think to ask me is that? Sheesh!"  
  
Stunned by the rancor in those few words, Daniel swallowed his next question.  
  
Jennifer Hailey took pity on both Jon and Dr. Jackson. The resentment Jon felt was justified to say the least. Yet, it was painfully obvious both men wished to salvage some semblance of their friendship. "I think we'd all like to know just how you've managed to adjust so quickly to the wonderful world of high school, Jon. I mean, the General never tires of rolling his eyes and muttering about scientists…"  
  
"And so, you all naturally assumed I'd find the experience less than… stimulating." Jon finished for her, offering a small smile. "Ya know there's an old saying about accepting the things one cannot change…I guess I embraced that concept along with high school."  
  
"Ah, and perhaps everyone would be amused to hear exactly which subject is your favorite, Jon." Hailey teased good-naturedly.  
  
Groaning, Jon surrendered. It was no use, Daniel would never let him live this one down, might as well turn the revelation to his advantage, brag about it and hopefully deflect any ribbing. "It would seem I have a gift for the art of cooking…"  
  
"Specifically, the art of baking." Hailey interjected.  
  
Daniel's eyebrows connected with his hairline in surprise. "Baking?"  
  
Arching an eyebrow of his own, Jon warmed to the subject. "The things I can do with a bit of flour, some cinnamon and icing will make you salivate like Pavlov's dog Danny-boy."  
  
Sam Carter offered Hailey a grateful smile; the younger officer had impeccable timing. Speaking of time, glancing at her watch Sam noticed that it was 1930 hours.  
  
Teal'c, silently clearing the empty cartons of food from the coffee table, caught Colonel Carter's surreptitious movement. O'Neill was very late. It was unlike his warrior brother to neglect to inform them of his continued delay.  
  
Feeling the heat of his gaze, Sam glanced up and the two exchanged an intense look.  
  
Sam had an uneasy feeling something besides the plight of SG-9 had delayed General O'Neill. Removing herself from the living room, she attempted to reach the general by cell. An automated message reported the phone out of the service area.  
  
Punching in the general's office number proved fruitless as well. Squelching her rising concern, Sam placed a call directly to the Gate Room.  
  
Major Kearney leaned back in his chair and gazed idly at the Stargate, chatting amiably with the sergeant on duty. So far, the major liked his new assignment at the SGC. As head of security, he worked closely with the man in charge, General O'Neill.  
  
Briefed on much of O'Neill's history, Kearney relished the opportunity to learn from the wily general's vast experience and found his sense of humor refreshing, if a bit unorthodox. He himself enjoyed a good one liner, not to mention a naughty limerick or two. "So Bailey, did ya hear the one about the man from Capri?"  
  
Sergeant Scott Bailey made an appreciative audience; his good nature and ready laugh encouraged the senior officer to relay ever-increasing blue prose at a rapid fire pace. The jingling of the red phone startled him for a moment. Jumping up from his seat, the young technician grabbed the handset. "Gate Room, Sergeant Bailey…yes Ma'am. It's for you, Sir."  
  
Curiosity marred Kearney's freckled forehead as he took the phone offered him. "Kearney."  
  
"Major, its Colonel Carter, has the general left as yet?" Sam was unable to keep her voice light.  
  
Kearney's brow wrinkled with concern. "He left well over an hour ago ma'am. I personally bid him goodbye at 1820 hours."  
  
"I've been unable to reach him by cell…supposedly the device has traveled outside of the service area." A shard of dread pierced Sam's heart. "Major, put out an alert, given the circumstances we discussed earlier, I'd rather err on the side of caution."  
  
Kearney had been privy to both Hailey's mission and Jon O'Neill's retrieval; he understood the subtle implication in the colonel's tense voice. "Understood, Colonel."  
  
Trusting that the major would dispatch every available SF to comb the mountain and all the possible routes to the general's home, Sam concluded the call and took a moment to gather her thoughts.  
  
Teal'c stood quietly in the archway leading from the living room where the others still chatted, hoping his presence would offer some measure of support. He'd overheard most of Colonel Carter's conversation with the major and shared her apprehension.  
  
Sam, sensing the big Jaffa's comforting presence, turned to study him. How did he contrive to be so cool and in control? It never ceased to make her wonder. Did she too project the same 'in control' façade? Taking a deep breath, she allowed him to see her naked fear. "It would appear the general is missing."  
  
As he often did in times of adversity, Teal'c gathered his dignity for strength. "We must inform the others."  
  
Squaring her shoulders, Sam led the way back into the living room.  
  
Jon caught sight of the pair as they returned from the hall. A master in assessing any given situation at a glance, he knew something was up. "Spill it, Carter."  
  
Sam proceeded to efficiently fill the trio in, using her military persona to cover her anxiety.  
  
"Maybe the General had car trouble." Hailey whispered hopefully.  
  
"That is unlikely lieutenant. If O'Neill had encountered a mechanical problem, he would have called for assistance and informed us of his delay." Although he spoke in his usual benign manner, Teal'c's tone seemed sepulchral.  
  
"It would appear that Jack was the one in danger after all." Daniel mused. "Guess we miscalculated."  
  
"Nope, not likely." Jon stood up and began pacing back and forth. "Why go after only one O'Neill when a singular plan could fail? Makes more sense to tackle the problem from two angles; if they missed with me, then they just might succeed in snagging Jack, and if they're very lucky they'd double their pleasure."  
  
Daniel pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose. If ever they'd needed Jack's considerable strategic expertise, it was now. "Okay, let's say you are right, they had two plots going. What do we do now?"  
  
Pulling a slip of paper from his pocket, Jon's face transformed into a reasonable facsimile of Jack's cat got the canary grin, "Why, Danny boy I'm surprised…thought I'd taught you better…we give them what they want."  
  
&&&  
  
Clare watched the hands of the large grandfather clock creep upward, its deep chimes sounding the hour; nine p.m. and still not a peep from Jon.  
  
Over the past hour, Damien described his latest plans to educate her in vivid detail. He'd finally left her alone to contemplate her fate and gone off to inquire after his pet protégé, a true amoral degenerate who called himself Frankie. All too often, Damien allowed the sadistic cur free rein and Clare was his target of choice. The things the sicko laughingly did to her invaded her nightmares daily.  
  
Clare felt the deep vibration of her cell phone against her hip with gratitude. She'd given this number to only one person, Jon O'Neill. "Hello?"  
  
"Clare? Hi, it's me, Jon." Jon instilled longing into his voice.  
  
"Oh, hi Jon." Relieved, Clare affected a purr. "I'm so very happy you called. Has your uncle given you permission to keep our study date?"  
  
"Well, not exactly." Jon hedged. "I'll explain later, all right? Do you think you can meet me at the public library, around four p.m. tomorrow afternoon?"  
  
"That should be no problem." Clare assured him. Mindful of her teenage cover, she gushed. "I just got my own little VW. It's a cute metallic blue."  
  
Jon grinned ominously. "Okay then, I'll keep an eye out for it, see you then."  
  
Ending the call, Jon gave Hailey and Daniel the thumbs up. "It's a go."  
  
&&&  
  
Jon checked the time, still no word.  
  
Major Kearney's attempt to run the license plate of the dark sedan which Daniel had chanced to witness picking Clare up after school, met with a dead end. It would appear that the plate was bogus.  
  
Shortly after filling Major Kearney in on Jon's theory, Sam and Teal'c headed up the mountain to conduct their own search for the MIA general. Leaving a very put out Jon O'Neill, an agitated Lieutenant Hailey and a very worried Daniel Jackson behind to deal with contacting the seductress Clare.  
  
A hard driving rain began to fall not long after the pair's departure, adding a penetrating chill to the moonless night's already cool temperature.  
  
Teal'c called at midnight, informing them that a car had apparently lost control and gone over a high mountain pass; it was still unclear if the vehicle had been O'Neill's car. The impenetrable darkness and rain-induced mist were making the search for wreckage difficult. Understanding the angst his friends suffered, Teal'c vowed to inform them of any further developments as soon as possible.  
  
Endless minutes ticked by, Jon drummed restless fingers on the arm of the chair, fed up with waiting. If Jack was to be found, who better than his duplicate to find him?  
  
Okay, so technically he was a kid, yes; a kid who was very possibly in grave danger. And the only one who truly understood the complex maze that was Jack's mind. "Daniel, for crap sakes will you listen to reason? Let me search for Jack, you know I'm his best bet…"  
  
"Not gonna happen Jon and you know it. I will not risk losing you too." Daniel sighed. He agreed with Jon's reasoning, but if Jack had been taken, then Jon was next and they still weren't totally sure of Clare's intentions or even if she truly was a participant in a plot for that matter. It was up to Danny to keep him safe. "Besides, Jack would kill me."  
  
Exasperated, Jon jumped to his feet. "For crying out loud, Daniel! I'm a big boy…"  
  
Hailey felt caged. She should be out there with the colonel and Teal'c searching for their commander, not stuck here listening to the same argument over and over. "I'd really appreciate it if you two would just shut up!"  
  
Two startled pairs of eyes, one deep brown and one sky blue gazed at her. Realizing she'd been rude and out of line, Hailey blushed. "Sorry, it's just that…none of us want to be here. Look, we all wish we could find the general, but he might just come strolling through that door any minute; and so we stay put."  
  
Jon plopped back on the sofa and placed both hands over his eyes. "Crap!"  
  
Cognizant of how both he and Jon had been going round and round, Daniel looked sheepish. "I know it's hard…" Jon uncovered his eyes and fixed Daniel with a long-suffering stare. "Can we at least give Carter a call? They should have something by now."  
  
Daniel understood Jon's need. He knew damned well that if Sam or Teal'c learned anything of value they'd called, still it was a struggle not to grab the phone and demand an update. "We'll give them a few more minutes. If we don't hear from them by 0300 hours…"  
  
Bright light danced over the room briefly, indicating the approach of a set of car headlights outside. Daniel stopped short and the trio rushed to the front door.  
  
Sam Carter dreaded sharing her news with the three anxious faces animated by the soft glow within the abode. Stepping out of the darkness and into the shimmering pool of light cast by the porch lamp, she motioned for them to return to the living room. "Let's sit down."  
  
Teal'c followed solemnly behind, closing the front door softly. Understanding Colonel Carter's reluctance, he stood behind her chair to offer his silent support.  
  
Daniel could read the pain and anguish in Sam's face. Gulping, he perched on the edge of Jack's favorite chair and waited tautly.  
  
Jon took Hailey's hand and settled on the sofa, with her seated at his side, his expression resigned. "Jack's dead."  
  
Stunned by Jon's flat statement, Jennifer Hailey's gripped his too cool hand tightly. 'How could he be so calm?'  
  
Sam Carter read the underlying pain in those two short terse words.

"We're not sure. His car was found at the bottom of Jade Canyon, the body inside was in poor condition…it ignited on final impact." Swallowing back her tears, Sam continued, "Dr. Brightman is checking the dental work now…the driver was thrown from the wreckage…"  
  
Teal'c placed a comforting hand on Colonel Carter's shoulder. "The man was unfamiliar to me. However, the vehicle was indeed the one assigned to convey O'Neill home."  
  
Daniel's dazed eyes refocused on the big Jaffa's steady countenance. "There is a chance it wasn't Jack inside the…"  
  
Teal'c tilted his head to one side with an almost wistful smile. "I concur, Daniel Jackson, we must not lose all hope as yet. O'Neill has ever been resourceful."  
  
"Did you get a look at the other body T'?" Jon asked knowingly.  
  
Teal'c inclined his head with a smile. "Indeed, Jon O'Neill."  
  
&&&  
  
Wet, he felt very wet.  
  
Icy cold rain pelted the tender exposed flesh of his face and neck. Jack's entire body screamed in aguish - it hurt, literally everywhere.  
  
'Oh God, my head, oy! Not another skull fracture, crap!'  
  
Summoning his strength, Jack opened his burning eyes, attempting to focus. Nothing. Had he gone blind? Nope, darkness, deep and abiding pitch-blackness wavered before his bleary eyes. The kind of ebony expanse one only encountered outdoors on a cloud laden and moonless night.'Where the hell am I and just what the hell have I done to myself now?'  
  
'Jeez, I promised Sara there'd be no more accidents! She's gonna kill me - if I live long enough.'  
  
'Okay, focus O'Neill. What mission is this anyhow? The air is too moist for the desert, so that's out; maybe another one of those oh so wonderful jungle ops. That would explain the loamy tang to the air.'  
  
'Ah, no, it's too cold for a jungle. Where then? Lift your head and look around, you nit!'  
  
Raising his head proved to be a mistake, dizziness assailed him with a vengeance.  
  
'Crap! Who the hell is moaning so loud? They're gonna give away my position. Oh, bloody hell, it's you O'Neill!'  
  
Clamping his lips together, Jack rose up once more; albeit, this time more slowly. The misery in his head increased, but it seemed to spin less. Gulping the cold saturated air, he smelled his own blood.  
  
'Damn, I've taken a hit of some kind.'  
  
Jack challenged nausea to a duel of wills - and won. Steeling himself, he gingerly eased into a semi-sitting position.  
  
The loud rumble and thunder of an incoming chopper drew his attention. 'Crap! Move O'Neill, you're a sitting duck here!'  
  
His rubbery legs refused to obey, making it impossible for him to get to his feet and make a run for it. Undaunted, Jack half-crawled and dragged his battered body deeper into the underbrush.  
  
Glaring searchlights tracked back and forth over the terrain, lending a ghoulish form of luminance to his surroundings. The steep pitch of the land and the shadowy outline of dense forest awakened a memory; an op gone very badly, was it Croatia or the Balkans?  
  
Flashes of death, loss and pain, so much pain, assailed his confused mind. The searing agony in his head and left side, multiplied to an unending torture, robbing him of what little breath he had left.  
  
Still, somewhere deep inside, Jack O'Neill survivor, found the strength to continue to inch his way along hoping to conceal himself fully. His questing hands found a shallow indentation amidst a tangle of brush and tree limbs bowing beneath their burden of rainwater; here was a warren of nature's debris, matted and spongy.

Jack burrowed deeply beneath a pile of moldering wet leaves.  
  
Exhausted, he passed out.  
  
&&&  
  
Frustrated, Major Kearney stood belligerently on the precipice and glared defiantly into the night. 'For crap's sake General, where are you?'  
  
Informing the Pentagon of his findings thus far had been awkward. "General Jumper, Sir… I regret to inform you…"  
  
Jumper's pissed off voice interrupted, "Just spit it out Major Kearney, what has my maverick general gotten himself involved in now?"  
  
Gulping, Kearney got to the point.  
  
'Damn!' Stunned, despite O'Neill's reputation for finding trouble, Jumper took a moment to digest the possibility that Jack's luck had finally run out. "Listen up Kearney, Major Davis will be catching the next available flight."  
  
"Sir, I…" The last thing Kearney needed was someone from the Pentagon breathing down his neck - he had a general to find.  
  
"Davis will act as liaison and facilitate an interface with Washington and the White House." Jumper understood the major's reluctance. "I am confident your team will find our missing Brigadier."  
  
"Understood Sir." Returning his cell phone to his jacket pocket, Kearney cursed under his breath. 'Liaison and interface my ass! Translation, take charge, until General O'Neill or his remains are found.' "Son of a !"  
  
Kearney sincerely hoped they'd find the tenacious O'Neill alive and in good condition, and soon. If he were lying injured nearby, the cold rain would most likely worsen his condition and quite possibly hasten his demise. He had every available SF and several helicopters combing the crash scene, but the unfavorable weather and lack of light hampered their efforts considerably.  
  
Dr. Brightman checked and double checked both corpses' dental records and found neither to be O'Neill or any member of the SGC staff.  
  
Yet, despite that fact, they were still not sure the general had come through the crash alive.  
  
O'Neill's crushed cell phone was found a hundred yards up the road from the site of the vehicle's first impact, confirming that he'd traveled at least part of the way down the mountain in the destroyed sedan.

The question remained, had General O'Neill thrown the phone from the car window or dropped it as he himself was thrown from the fast moving vehicle?  
  
Either possibility did not bode well for finding the senior officer unharmed. The treacherous and rocky terrain below would take its toll on anyone unlucky enough to tumble from the steep roadway, add in the apparent velocity at which the automobile had been traveling and…well Kearney hated to speculate.  
  
The insistent ring of his cell pulled him back from his musings. "Kearney."  
  
"Major, Colonel Carter here, any news?" Sam Carter's military persona was in full swing.  
  
Despite her cool voice, Kearney was fully aware of the level of her worry, the colonel had spoken to him not thirty minutes ago. "No ma'am, unfortunately no new developments."  
  
A soft sigh escaped her lips before Sam could squelch it. "Anything further from the Pentagon?"  
  
"Their Major Davis should be here within the hour." He'd heard the soft sigh, and his compassion for SG-1's team leader escalated. She'd been visibly distraught while viewing the corpses and wreckage, with the steady Jaffa at her side.  
  
He'd heard the rumors about the supposed deep affection that the colonel and the general shared, but until tonight, he'd witnessed nothing to confirm them. Still, they'd been through hell and high water together and it would be only natural for all of SG-1 to feel deeply at such a time. "We'll find him ma'am." He whispered softly.  
  
Hearing the empathy in the Major's voice, Sam smiled. "I know you will Kearney, carry on."  
  
Sam closed her cell phone with an exasperated snap, pacing the kitchen's hardwood floor. Where was that hardheaded Irishman? Didn't he know they were looking for him? Why didn't he call out or something?  
  
Sam refused to entertain the possibility that he'd died falling from that car. He was so very resilient; surely, he was somewhere nearby? Once they'd located the general they could move forward with Jon's newly formed plan to entrap the teenaged Mata Hari, Clare. With the still unsolved plot against the O'Neill boys in mind, Sam flipped open her cell once more and dialed.  
  
&&&  
  
"Samantha." Malcolm moaned, pressing his naked form deeper into the black satin sheets. The voluptuous negligee clad blonde, licked her way across his muscular chest and down…  
  
BLING! BLING!  
  
Rousing himself with a moan, Barrett noted the time as 0400 hours and fumbled for his cell phone. "This had better be good!"  
  
"Agent Barrett, it's Sam Carter; we have a situation."  
  
&&&  
Teal'c stood silently gazing out the large picture window in O'Neill's living room, cursing the blackness of the night. With the coming of the dawn, he would once again be on the mountain searching for the man who was in everyway except bloodline, his kin.  
  
He'd left the search reluctantly in order to accompany Colonel Carter, offering his own brand of comfort to his team members and the boy who was and wasn't the general. Teal'c had failed in his self-appointed role of protector when they had all turned their backs on the young O'Neill; an error, he realized now, which would not be repeat again.  
  
His duty was discharged; the others had come to terms with the possible loss of their friend and leader. Now Teal'c was free to search for his warrior brother.  
  
He had no wish to cast aspersions on the expertise of Major Kearney or his security contingent, but they would not find O'Neill this night, unless his brother of the soul no longer lived.  
  
If, as Teal'c suspected O'Neill were injured and perhaps confused, as he had been on countless missions, the seasoned veteran would find a place to conceal himself until the arrival of someone he trusted.  
  
Teal'c turned and took in the stubborn face of the half-grown warrior Jon O'Neill.  
  
"You are so not going without me T'." Jon whispered firmly.  
  
Teal'c knew this moment would arrive. After all, Jon was O'Neill. Arching his left brow and bowing slightly in respect, Teal'c employed his still fledgling humor. "Agreed, Jon O'Neill. Finding oneself is an important quest for the Tau'ri, is it not?"  
  
"T' that humor of yours has become decidedly macabre." Jon grinned. "So, no arguments then?"  
  
"None." Teal'c returned. Looking over the younger man's head his eyes fell on the sleeping archeologist.  
  
Daniel was taking 'a cat nap,' sprawled out on the leather sofa, his mouth open and glasses askew.  
  
Hailey, capitulating to Colonel Carter's demand that she 'catch a few winks' took the spare room.  
  
Jon O'Neill however, informed the colonel with familiar irritated dignity that he had no use for a mother at this stage of his life and that his younger body was a great deal more able to go without sleep than her own, 'considerably older' one.  
  
Despite the blatant insult, Colonel Carter acquiesced fondly. Shaking her head, she took herself off to O'Neill's chamber for a brief rest.  
  
Thus, the deceptively callow youth with the sage wisdom of a man and the Jaffa stood watch over those they loved.  
  
"I have ever wondered how it is that Daniel Jackson can sleep so deeply in any given situation." Teal'c muttered wryly. "We will need to employ stealth if we are to leave without disturbing those who need their rest."  
  
Jon affected his best imitation of the big guy's patented response. "Indeed." &&&  
  
As dawn crept up over the mountain, Major Davis grimly studied a visibly disturbed Major Kearney; despite an all night search by the base personnel they'd found no sign of General O'Neill. "What about trained dogs…"  
  
Kearney took an instant dislike to the officious and visibly stiff, Pentagon liaison. "With respect major, up until twenty minutes ago it was raining cats and dogs, pardon the pun. No animal, no matter how well trained, is capable of sniffing out a scent under those conditions."  
  
"Perhaps now that the rain has ceased, a team of dogs might be of assistance." Davis stared intently into the irritated blue eyes before him and realized they'd gotten off on the wrong foot. Expelling a long breath, he ran a hand through his neatly trimmed hair. "It's just that…I respect and admire the general and the possibility that he may be…" Seeing the mutual concern and understanding in the taller man's eyes, Davis trailed off.  
  
Kearney reassessed his first impression of the shorter Davis. Anyone who cared about General O'Neill this much was all right in his book. "Well major, you might say that we've got someone better than a team of canines on the job." Smiling over Davis's puzzled expression, he added, "We have Teal'c."  
  
&&&  
Damien Wellington sat morosely staring out his office window as the first faint vestiges of dawn relieved the darkness. Frankie and Avery were dead. His sources had confirmed their demise just moments ago. General O'Neill was still unaccounted for and it was presumed he had died in the crash; a search continued even now for his body. Damien would miss dear Frankie. Avery was just another thug, easily replaced, but Frankie was an artist, not unlike himself. No, there were few men who could match Wellington when it came to mastering the ancient art of torture. Yes, Frankie had been truly gifted.  
  
Sighing heavily, Damien shifted in his chair, now he'd be required to explain the loss of the senior O'Neill. Oh yes, the trustees would be most displeased.  
  
Still, he hoped that they'd be willing to accept the delivery of a singular O'Neill - and a younger less experienced one at that. 'Ah, but the young are so very malleable and so easily persuaded to cooperate.'  
  
Rising, Damien made his way to Clare's room. 'Yes, the younger the pupil, the more satisfaction derived from teaching them their duty.'  
  
&&&  
  
Jon shadowed Teal'c; the big Jaffa's hunt angled away from the main search party, taking them at least two hundred yards from where Kearney's men still combed the mountainside.  
  
They'd arrived just as the rain leveled off to a fine mist and a few glimmers of light made their tentative way along the horizon. Catching sight of the adolescent O'Neill climbing down from the driver's side of the general's big Ford truck wearing a baggy dark set of sweats a size too big for his angular body, Kearney balked.  
  
Blocking the unknown youngster's path the annoyed major demanded, "Excuse me son, just who the hell are you?"  
  
The stocky major blocking his way might be unfamiliar to Jon O'Neill, but his tone and challenge were not. Smirking cockily, Jon stepped forward into the light of the Ford's headlight. "I'm Jon O'Neill, the general's…ah, nephew."  
  
The Major gazed intently into the younger man's face, searching for his General there.  
  
A pair of familiar deep chocolate brown eyes with just a hint of mischief and veiled intellect returned his perusal. This youth had the general's lanky build, if a tad shorter and the same relaxed yet unmistakable tone of command in his still high-pitched voice. At the very least, he was a true O'Neill. Kearney had no trouble believing that Jon was the spitting image of his commander at an earlier age.  
  
'So this is the infamous clone of the then Colonel O'Neill. Okay, essentially he is Colonel O'Neill and therefore deserves my respect, but damn…this is awkward. Do I call him Jon, colonel or kid?' Thrusting out his hand, Kearney lowered his voice. "I was hoping I'd get a chance to meet you, sir…Allow me to brief you on the situation."  
  
Grasping the offered hand strongly, Jon raised an ironic brow. "Call me Jon, technically I'm not an officer and if we are to maintain my cover you need to treat me like a kid." Kearney raised a questioning brow of his own. "Well then…ah, Jon…Perhaps this is not the appropriate place for you to be right now…"  
  
Teal'c stood quietly to one side observing the interchange, gratified that the major afforded his warrior brother's younger self the respect he deserved. "I do not agree Major Kearney; Jon O'Neill is uniquely qualified to assist in the search for General O'Neill."  
  
Kearney hesitated briefly, his eyes boring into those of the impassive Jaffa. "Understood. Well then, let me fill you in on what we have so far."  
  
That had been over an hour ago. Starting from the location where Jack's pulverized cell phone was found, Teal'c wove his way down from the lip of the roadway, finding many a broken branch and torn turf to indicate O'Neill's path of descent.  
  
Jon and Teal'c made slow progress. The incline, and the fact that rain had washed away a good portion of the mountain's loose dirt changing the appearance of the rugged terrain, hindered the Jaffa's normal tracking prowess. Still, where knowledge failed him instinct filled in the blanks.  
  
Teal'c stopped short; Jon, busy looking to one side and then the other, bumped into his sturdy back. "Whatcha got T'?"  
  
Teal'c leaned down and ran questing fingers over the base of a large pine tree. Straightening, he displayed bloody mud stained digits. "O'Neill lay here. I fear that he is gravely injured."  
  
Jon squatted down. Despite the deluge of rain during the night, an impressively large quantity of blood mixed with muddy water continued to seep lazily into the earth. Closing his eyes, he said a quick Hail Mary.  
  
Peering around the big tree trunk, Jon searched for any further sign of Jack's passing this way. "If I were the one injured, confused and unsure of pursuit, I'd make for the deepest cover I could find."  
  
It was a safe bet Jack had done the same. "We need to take it nice and easy from here T'. Jack will be very dangerous in his present condition and most likely not expecting our company."  
  
&&&  
  
Cold, he was so very cold. Something wet and slimy covered his face, robbing him of breath. Attempting to clear the offensive covering away proved to be too difficult, Jack's arms felt like lead. The effort cost him; moaning he submerged into the depths once more.  
  
Cocking his head to one side, Jon froze. He knew that sound, had heard it countless times before, albeit up close and personal. Tapping the big Jaffa on the shoulder, he spun around to his left and peered into the deep underbrush.  
  
Teal'c followed suit, using a large stick to gently probe beneath the dense trees. His efforts stirred leaves heavy with mud and the recent rain, spattering his already moist boots and trousers.  
  
Impatient, Jon dropped to his knees and crawled under the low-hanging pine boughs, his movements dislodging more water from the trees; undaunted, he sifted through the debris with his hands, making slow progress forward and deeper into the morass. The dead leaves and pine needles would make a perfect den in which to hide away from pursuit, it was just the kind of place an injured Jack would chose as cover; Jon knew they'd find him here somewhere.  
  
Thrusting a long arm forward underneath a particularly low hanging branch, Jon's hand made contact with a boot. "Teal'c!"  
  
Frantic, Jon burrowed through the very same debris Jack used to hide himself away. Scooping wet leaves away from Jack's body, he exposed his counterpart, muttering an Our Father.  
  
Jack's clothing was soaked and frigid, his skin, once Jon was able to reach his face, icy.  
  
Jack made no sound, a fact, which added to Jon's desperate effort to uncover him. "Teal'c, hand me a flashlight willya? It's as dark as pitch under here."  
  
Teal'c, pushing the offending branches of the huge pine tree out of his way, knelt beside the younger man, flashlight at the ready. O'Neill did not look well; his face usually so animated, was still and ashen.  
  
Placing a finger lightly against his friend's jugular, Teal'c sought a pulse. "His lifeblood still surges through his veins, however, not with its usual vigor."  
  
Pulling his sweatshirt over his head, Jon wrapped it around Jack's upper torso; his hands came away bloodied. 'Crap!'  
  
"He needs Janet…" Catching himself, Jon remembered that their trustworthy friend was dead and buried another event which he'd been unable to share. 'Damn!'  
  
Busy removing his own outer garment and tucking it around O'Neill's legs, Teal'c empathized with Jon's unspoken pain. "Dr. Brightman is both competent and efficient young O'Neill. We must stay our course if we are to succeed in capturing those who would ensnare you."  
  
As he brushed a few remaining wet leaves away from Jack's lifeless face, Jon nodded. "Right…then I suggest you go find a body bag and I'll stay here with Jack."  
  
Reaching into the backpack he'd snagged from the major's jeep, Teal'c pulled out a rolled up black bag. "The fewer allowed contact with O'Neill's remains…"  
  
"The less likely we are to be found out." Jon finished for him.  
  
Parting Jack's shirt and jacket, he carefully wedged his wadded-up tee shirt against the area seeping blood, there was no time and too little light to examine the wound. "We need to move him gently T', he's in bad shape…"  
  
Unrolling the repellant length of thick plastic, Teal'c unzipped the zipper and laid the bag next to the general's body. "Indeed. Once we have placed him within, I shall carry him back to the roadway." He would entrust his brother of the soul to no other.  
  
Given that he had dragged himself here, it was unlikely that Jack had sustained any serious neck trauma; still the unknown extend of his injuries indicated caution. Together they log rolled Jack into the bag, carefully protecting his neck, zipping the bag up and over his chin; encasing his limp body inside.  
  
Teal'c removed his radio from his vest pocket and keyed the switch. "Major Kearney, this is Teal'c. We have located General O'Neill."  
  
Teal'c's radio crackled to life. "Roger that Teal'c. What is the general's condition?"  
  
Instilling as much dignity as he thought befitting into his tone, Teal'c answered succinctly. "General O'Neill is dead."  
  
&&& TBC… in chapter five the Art of Misdirection…


	5. The Art of Misdirection

The Art of Misdirection

Cjay's Candlestick Chronicles part five.  
  
Standing silently in the early morning light, Lieutenant Jennifer Hailey shivered. Colonel Carter and Dr. Jackson, deep in hushed conversation with the Majors Davis and Kearney ignored her.  
  
It was early, a haze of mist hung over the mountain adding a surreal aspect to the already macabre scene before her eyes.  
  
Teal'c, his massive muscles bulging, cradled a body bag in his arms as he trudged up the last steep incline and gained the roadway. Beside him, a stone-faced Jon O'Neill plodded along, apparently unaware of his grisly appearance; naked from the waist up, his lean arms, face and torso glistened with morning dew, mud and streaks of blood.  
  
General O'Neill, her mentor, her leader, the man who never quit and never gave in, lay inside that hideous black plastic receptacle. Not twenty minutes ago the gathered company clearly heard the reverberating sepulcher tone of the big Jaffa as he'd imparted sad news over his radio; they'd found General O'Neill - dead.  
  
Stricken as she felt, Jennifer knew Jon must be devastated. What must it be like to search for 'oneself' only to find a broken and battered body? She'd only known Jon less than a day, yet she instinctively understood him; at least she thought she did.  
  
It was odd, he was so very much the general and yet, so very different. This incarnation of O'Neill seemed less guarded, more introspective and frankly gentler than the original. Was it his deceptive youth or the last year of freedom from the uncertain world of the SGC that made him so?  
  
Jon discerned Hailey's bleak expression. Avoiding her eyes, he focused on the group of officers and enlisted men surrounding her and the rest of SG-1. It had been a while since he'd witnessed such naked pain; it was patently clear that Jack's command truly loved and respected him. Somehow, this knowledge made Jon proud and vaguely envious.  
  
In what amounted to a blink of an eye, Jon O'Neill, clone and outcast had lost much more than he'd known. Swallowing, he hardened his resolve to find the rat bastard behind the plot against the O'Neill's.  
  
As one, Daniel Jackson, Major Kearney, Major Davis and four burly SF's rushed forward to assist Teal'c with his burden. The big warrior's intimidating scowl stopped them cold.  
  
Turning his gaze to Colonel Carter, Teal'c bowed his head. "I shall convey my warrior brother home."  
  
Nodding, her eyes filled with tears, Sam Carter quietly opened the passenger door of the general's big Ford truck.  
  
Jennifer Hailey grabbed a blanket and moving forward determinedly, wrapped it around Jon's shoulders. "Are you injured Jon…you're covered in blood…"  
  
Shaking his head, Jon answered bleakly. "It's not my…that is…this is Jack's blood."  
  
Cognizant of his audience, Jon allowed his horror over their find to wash over him and his voice broke. "He looked so still lying there Jennifer…I've never seen him so…"  
  
Jennifer wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face against Jon's blanket covered chest.  
  
Jon rested his chin on Jennifer's head, returning her trembling embrace. "I…I need to go with Teal'c."  
  
Shaking off her despair, Jennifer looked up into Jon's dejected face. "Of course you do." Taking him by the hand, she led him to the truck.  
  
Teal'c laid the body bag containing O'Neill out on the backseat of the truck. Jon climbed in and lifted the head of the bag upward, settling himself into the seat, lowering his burden, he lay it carefully across his lap; the Jaffa slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Slowly, the truck pulled away as the assembly saluted, bidding their general a somber goodbye. Following Major Kearney's lead the entire company maintained their gesture of respect until the Ford rounded a bend in the road.  
  
Once it was out of sight the major relaxed his stance. Employing his cell phone, he swiftly alerted the guard on duty at the front gate of the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, instructing the stunned SF to wave the general's truck through without the usual delay.  
  
He then notified Dr. Brightman, advising her to standby to receive the general's remains. Discharging that sad duty, Kearney refocused on the last facets of the mop up efforts, wondering how the SGC would survive the loss of the much-admired General O'Neill.  
  
Sam Carter stood rigidly beside a visibly disturbed Daniel Jackson and a miserable, but contained, Lieutenant Hailey. Long years of restraint and denial masked her grief, affording her a measure of control.  
  
Allowing Teal'c and Jon the lonely task of conveying the general back to the SGC rankled, but Sam respected and understood their need to perform this act alone.  
  
Colonel Carter made eye contact with Major Davis. "Perhaps you'd be good enough to accompany Dr. Jackson, Lieutenant Hailey and myself; I'd like a private word."  
  
Davis, his mask of detached concern firmly in place, addressed his driver. "I'll be riding along with Colonel Carter, airman. Lend what assistance you can here."  
  
Returning the man's salute, Davis followed the colonel to her sedan. "Allow me to drive Colonel; it's been a long night."  
  
Grateful for the chance to collect herself further, Sam acquiesced. "Thanks."  
  
Daniel trailed mutely after Sam, Jennifer Hailey at his heels. Climbing awkwardly into the rear of the vehicle, he numbly curled himself against the seat.  
  
Settling herself beside Daniel, Jennifer slid her small hand across the smooth leather and clasped his clenched fist, offering a measure of comfort. 'Where did they go from here?'  
  
&&&  
  
Captain Kris Martin took another bracing sip of rich black coffee; pulling off the main road, she parked the dark van beneath the trees. Switching off the headlights, Kris turned the heater up and shifted into park, allowing the engine to idle.  
  
Crawling over the seat into the back of the windowless Chevy, She flipped on the dome light and rechecked her supplies.  
  
Teal'c's brief description of the general's injuries painted a sketchy picture at best, and included at least one gunshot wound. In addition, Jack's long fall insinuated the very real possibility of head injury. Kris could not help wishing for more time to gather supplies, not to mention some assistance. Unfortunately, the situation demanded stealth and absolute secrecy; therefore, she was essentially on her own.  
  
Borrowing an expletive from her favorite patient, friend and superior, Kris muttered an explosive - "Crap! Jack, why can't you just once turn up with a paper cut?"  
  
Patching up an injured and ornery Jack O'Neill was not a job for the faint of heart; few were as capable as the seasoned charge nurse was. Years of managing his abject dislike of helplessness made Kris the perfect choice for this covert assignment. The fact that both she and Teal'c chose to keep the true nature of this little mission from Dr. Brightman gave her pause - albeit briefly. Thankfully, her shift ended just as the Jaffa's urgent call, via her private cell phone, came in.  
  
Commandeering the van filled with supplies proved risky, requiring long unused training in espionage, but Kris pulled it off. This van's existence was the result of a contingency plan first employed by the deceased Janet Fraiser following one of SG-1's many brushes with death. Luckily, its upkeep was relegated to a select few and one of her many duties.  
  
Spiking a liter each of Lactated Ringers and O-negative whole blood, Kris primed a length of IV tubing and selected several large bore needles. Jack's need for fluids and blood replacement would be priority one.  
  
The sound of a car engine drew her attention, snapping off the dome light; Kris opened the rear door of the van and said a little prayer.  
  
Teal'c jumped quickly out of O'Neill's Ford truck. "Captain Martin, we have little time."  
  
Dragging a bulky body bag from the floor of the van, Kris responded dryly. "Teal'c, you are the absolute master of the understatement."  
  
Jon pushed the Ford's heavy door open and breathed a sigh of relief. He remembered the captain's wit and compassionate care lightening more than one of his (or rather Jack's) forced confinements in the infirmary.  
  
"Kris, Jack is in sorry shape…he's barely breathing!" Jon cradled Jack's head in his lap; the zipper of the hideous body bag wrapped around his inert form gaping open to reveal most of his blood stained torso.  
  
Dropping the cumbersome bag at Teal'c's feet, Kris hustled over to Jon's side her eyes riveted on Jack's inert form. "Move him into the van Teal'c. Jon, there is a CPR dummy on the floor of the van, put it in the other bag…"  
  
Allowing Teal'c to remove Jack from his arms, Jon interrupted her. "Understood." Hopping down, he retrieved the dummy and stuffed it into the regulation body bag left on the ground, adding a few stones for weight. Pulling it up and into the backseat, he settled it over his lap.  
  
Teal'c and Kris Martin peeled the plastic away from O'Neill's body, and then laid him out on the gurney inside the van. Kris immediately set to work starting an intravenous line in each of Jack's forearms. "Go Teal'c, I can handle it from here."  
  
Turning hastily, the big Jaffa secured the van's rear door, sealing his warrior brother and the captain inside. Returning to the Ford, he shifted into drive and sped off. Kris stripped Jack's clothing from his battered body taking in each injury. Packing a pressure dressing against the gunshot wound beneath his left ribcage, she rolled him slightly noting the exit wound on his back. "Bullet went right on through…and hopefully missed any major organs."  
  
Securing an additional pressure bandage to the rear wound, she laid him once more on his back and applied oxygen via a nasal cannula. His breathing remained shallow and slightly labored; Kris snapped a quick set of electrodes to his chest, attaching a portable monitor.  
  
Running a careful hand over Jack's mud encrusted head, her fingers came away bloodied.  
  
An uneven gash beneath a large hematoma covered the back of Jack's head and could be indicative of a skull fracture. Unhappily, any underlying fractures would be difficult to detect without an X-ray. Ugly scrapes, bruises and deep scratches covered most of Jack's lean body, evidence of hazards encountered during his fall down the rugged mountainside.  
  
Wrapping Jack's body in blankets, Kris inserted hot-packs between the folds of the wool covering and secured him to the gurney with several straps.  
  
Searching his discarded clothing, she removed his wallet, dog tags and any item, which might betray his identity.  
  
Checking Jack over once more, she reassured herself that his condition was as stable as possible.  
  
Easing back into the driver's seat of the van, Kris pulled slowly back out onto the main roadway and headed down the mountain, away from the SGC.  
  
Airman Jefferson saluted and then waved General O'Neill's truck through the gate.  
  
Jon stared straight ahead in the hope of perpetuating their ruse. Appearing troubled was easy; abandoning Jack in his current condition was definitely not. Teal'c glanced at the younger O'Neill in the rearview mirror sharing his distress. Driving away from the van and its precious cargo required all of his Jaffa training. "We must not waver in our resolve, Jon O'Neill. Your life and that of O'Neill depend upon the success of our plan."  
  
Jon grimaced. "Let's just hope that come tomorrow, Jack has a life to save."  
  
&&&  
  
Malcolm Barrett pounded down the stairs, his coattail flying, heading for sub-level one. He needed Ned's expertise. There had been no answer at the dedicated hacker's home. While many would have found this an oddity given that it was barely 0700 hours, Barrett was fully aware that Ned Drew, consumed by his work, often slept nestled up to one of his many computer screens.  
  
Sure enough, the lights were all ablaze and Ned lay bent over his keyboard, face pressed against the flat-screen, drool gently seeping from the right side of his sleep-slackened lips.  
  
Although Barrett had found the younger man in similar repose before, it never ceased to amaze him. Not wishing to startle Ned unduly, Barrett moved to the coffee maker. Evidently, the timer had gone off; a fresh pot stood ready and waiting. Pouring out two cups, he set the pair near the sleeping man and reached out to nudge him awake.  
  
Ned was in heaven: ten naked super models surrounded him, each offering the very latest high tech upgrades …'Hey, stop pushing me girls, there is enough of me for all of you.'  
  
'Great, they could drop an A-bomb and Neddy boy would sleep right on through the chaos!' Barrett resorted to shaking Drew roughly. "Drew, wake up!"  
  
Ned cracked a heavy eyelid. "Mom, it's Saturday…" Focusing on the irritated face of his boss, he sat up quickly, fully awake. "Ah, sir, I was…guess I fell asleep again…"  
  
Barrett suppressed a grin. "No kidding? Look Ned the O'Neill situation has heated up. I need you to…"  
  
Ned's fingers were already flying over his keyboard. "Coffee…need lots and lots of coffee."  
  
Sliding one of the steaming cups closer to Ned's elbow, Barrett patted him on the back. "I'll just step out and find us a sweet roll or two."  
  
&&&  
  
Teal'c stoically transported the counterfeit body directly to the morgue - and a grim faced chief medical officer.  
  
When the call came in from Major Kearney, the doctor, dismissing the notion that she needed assistance, made her way to the cold room alone. Her staff, assuming she was distraught, did not interfere.  
  
Captain Brightman M.D. reached out to open the bag concealing the mortal remains of her commander, swallowing back a tear.  
  
New to the SGC, the soft-spoken doctor did not know the general well and yet, she had grown fond of the gruff and irreverent O'Neill. "I'll need to ascertain the exact cause of …"  
  
Jon reached out quickly staying her hand. "Please doctor, can it wait a bit?"  
  
The look in the teen's eyes brought her up short.  
  
Kearney's report alerted Brightman that the general's nephew accompanied the Jaffa. She had expected to encounter grief, but this lad, wrapped in a blanket, his legs and arms liberally splattered with mud and dried blood, was entirely too composed. Something all too familiar shone from those deep brown orbs of his.  
  
Teal'c stepped forward offering a brief incline of his head in a gesture of respect. "Doctor Brightman, O'Neill's remains have been secreted elsewhere."  
  
Shifting her gaze to the dignified Jaffa, Dr. Brightman raised her brows in surprise. "Please explain, Teal'c."  
  
Bowing more deeply this time, Teal'c began his litany of half-truths and deception.  
  
Jeff Prost stood in the doorway of his bucolic office drinking in the fresh early morning air. The tranquil setting suited him. He'd endured entirely way too much turmoil in his forty-five years: first, as just another punk trying to survive the inner city of Chicago and then, as a young medical officer in the bedlam of the Gulf War.  
  
Stationed in the Colorado Springs area on his final tour, Dr. Prost, camping out on a three-day pass, met up with an elderly physician, whose practice encompassed this rural community and the two found they had a great deal in common.  
  
A firm and lasting friendship developed. Therefore, it seemed only natural that on the eve of his retirement the older man handed his practice, along with this tiny clinic, over to the recently discharged Prost; secure in the knowledge that his patients would be safe in Jeff's capable hands.  
  
The role of country doctor came easily. Barring the occasional backwoods accident, Jeff relished the lack of excitement his little community afforded him.  
  
Saturdays were usually quiet. Actually, lately most days were quiet. 'Your fault ya know Jeff, you are the one who insisted on educating everyone. Thanks to your passion, you've got the healthiest group of regulars in the county.' Smiling, he leaned over to pet his frisky Sheltie, Mischief. "What do you say girl, shall we put up the gone fishing sign and head up to Leprechaun Falls?"  
  
Mischief circled and yipped. Laughing, Jeff made to turn and head back inside to do just that, but the little dog's keen hearing caused her to take off down the porch steps and onto the gravel drive, barking in earnest.  
  
Sighing, Jeff followed the mini-collie as she made her way down the drive a ways. "Looks like we'll need to abort our mission pal; someone needs our services after all."  
  
A dark van wound its way around a copse of pines barreling toward them at break-neck speed.  
  
Jeff grabbed Mischief's collar and backed up a few paces out of the path of the vehicle.  
  
Kris caught sight of Jeff and slammed her foot on the brake. Jumping down, she rushed toward the back of the still rocking van, throwing open the rear door. "I've got a man in critical condition Doc, hustle!"  
  
'What the…?' Shifting into full trauma mode, Jeff covered the ten paces in less than a second. Climbing onboard behind his old flame, he took in the interior with surprise. Inside, it looked like any other ambulance, complete with a patient strapped to a gurney. "Kris…?"  
  
Taking the double intravenous set up down from long poles, Kris laid the quarter full IV bags on the blanket covered form. "I'll fill you in later Jeff, trust me, we don't have time for chatter right now."  
  
Pushing curiosity to the back of his mind, the seasoned physician gave the injured man a quick once over. 'Jeez, I haven't seen anyone in such sorry shape since the Gulf!'  
  
Thanks to almost two liters of volume expanders and Kris's TLC, the gray haired stranger appeared to be stable, well, stable enough for a quick transfer into the clinic for further care at least.  
  
Jeff grabbed the head of the gurney and together he and Kris lifted the aluminum contraption to the ground. "Once we have him set, I want a full and I mean full explanation, you got me Martin?"  
  
Pushing the portable stretcher ahead of them, Kris nodded. "Sir, yes, sir." She snapped, unconsciously reverting to military protocol.  
  
A slip, which gave the perceptive ex-major an idea just what sort of situation he was getting himself involved in.  
  
Dr. Brightman realized her jaw was gaping open and snapped it shut. "Teal'c you are asking me to conduct an autopsy on a manikin, falsify a death certificate and authorize an immediate burial of the…remains?"  
  
Jon rolled his eyes in disgust. The new doctor's voice echoed in the small cool room despite her soft tone. "Listen up Doc, we need your cooperation."  
  
The good doctor dug in her heels. "I don't think you understand what it is you are asking me to…"  
  
Jon raised his hand in the universal gesture of silence. "I know precisely what it is I am asking of you Captain Brightman," he told her, his tone ominously low and strikingly familiar. "I am asking you to participate in a plan to uncover the scum sucking pigs that just killed my uncle, Jack O'Neill, your C.O."  
  
Noting her hesitation, Jon swooped in the kill. "He'd do it for you."  
  
Swallowing back any further protest, Brightman considered their insane plan. "A cover up of this magnitude will take more than just we three."  
  
Teal'c's highly attuned hearing detected the sounds of several footsteps rapidly approaching the door to the morgue.  
  
Opening the heavy portal, he agreed. "Indeed Dr. Brightman, it will require at least seven of us."  
  
Colonel Carter, Major Davis, Dr. Jackson and Lieutenant Hailey moved rapidly into the dimly lit room and secured the door behind them.  
  
Daniel Jackson, his body tense, moved closer to Jon and engaged the younger man's intense gaze. Jon shifted his eyes toward the bulky bag lying on the morgue table and shook his head no. Something unspoken passed between them; stepping back, Jackson wrapped his arms around himself in a familiar gesture of self-containment.  
  
Colonel Carter cleared her throat. "I assume Teal'c has filled you in on the situation Dr. Brightman." Taking in the other woman's nod, Sam continued, "Good then I trust we'll have your full cooperation." Catching the look of reluctance in the physician's eye, Major Davis jumped in. "This operation has been fully sanctioned by the Pentagon, Captain. General Jumper is personally acting as liaison to the President in this matter."  
  
Smiling wryly, Brightman capitulated. "Understood."  
  
Clare shifted painfully in bed. Ignoring her newly acquired bruises, she reached for her ringing cell phone. "Hello?"  
  
'Sounds like you woke her O'Neill.' Clearing his throat Jon stammered. "Clare? Hi, it's Jon O'Neill…I'm afraid…I need…I need to postpone our library date."  
  
Jon affected a muffled sob. "My uncle…Clare, my uncle is dead, he was killed in a car crash late last night."  
  
Clare's voice held just the right amount of horror and concern. "Oh my God! Jon, I am so very sorry."  
  
Jon's voice sounded strangled. Clare's empathy caught her unaware. That she could feel sympathy for her prey amazed the girl whose heart had long ago chosen to shrivel up and die.  
  
Of course, she already knew the elder O'Neill was dead. Altering the plan was a given, perhaps Jon himself was the key to a new course of action.  
  
"The thing is…" Jon hesitated, allowing a hint of guilt to tinge his next words. "I would still like to see you…it's just that today is… there is just too much going on…"  
  
Catching on, Clare interrupted him. "Of course I understand. I am here for you Jon. Just tell me what I can do to help."  
  
"The funeral is tomorrow, at noon." Jon lowered his voice. "I hate wakes, so I'll slip away; I doubt the general's unwanted nephew will be missed," he added bitterly. "Meet me at the park across from the high school at say…two o'clock."  
  
"You're not alone in this; I'll be there for you Jon." Clare assured him gently; ironically, she meant it too.  
  
&&&  
  
Sergeant Walter Davis shuffled along the interminable corridor dejectedly.  
  
His general was dead. Never in his eight years of optimistic zeal had he felt so betrayed.  
  
O'Neill was indestructible; at least it had seemed that way.  
  
Now his hero, his knight on the white horse, his John Wayne was no more.  
  
Disheartened, Walter grieved; he grieved as only those who believe in legends grieve - selfishly and wholeheartedly, ignoring those around him who also moved with lassitude and despair.  
  
Wrapped up in his own little world of hurt, Walter bumped into a rock solid body.  
  
Airman Jefferson steadied the little technician with a gentle hand; the Sergeant looked as if he had been crying. "You okay Walter?"  
  
Walter focused his red-rimmed eyes upward. "Oh, sorry Ben, I was just…"  
  
The look in Ben's eyes reflected his sorrow. "…scuttlebutt is the general's body was grotesquely shattered by its endless plummet down the mountainside…"  
  
Tearing up once again, Walter's voice shook. "I mean…he's been shot, tortured, burned, knifed, frozen, possessed by aliens and well the list is endless, and he dies in an auto accident."  
  
Gulping, Jefferson bit back his own outraged tears. "I hear it's so battered that even his closest friends must forego a last viewing to say goodbye. Instead, interment will be immediate, with only his nephew and SG-1 allowed at the graveside. Base personnel will have to be content with a memorial service later this week."  
  
Walter offered a doting smile. "You know the general; he never did like a crowd."  
  
Jefferson chuckled fondly. "Nope he sure didn't. I guess wherever he is he's fishing alone by some lake and sucking back a few cold ones."  
  
Clapping Ben on the back, Walter agreed. "Damn, you got that right. I think that is just how he would prefer to spend eternity."  
  
Walter's smile grew pensive. "Yes sir, Ben, you've sure got that right."  
  
Ben Jefferson returned his smile. "I've got an idea Walt; I'm going off duty now, what say we collect Siler and a few others, and then head over to Al's bar. We'll throw back a few tall ones in honor of the general."  
  
"In honor of Jack O'Neill, hero, soldier and fisherman." Walter agreed wistfully.  
  
"Hero, soldier and fisherman." Ben echoed. "I think the general would have liked that epitaph. Yep, he would have liked it just fine."  
  
&&&  
  
Major Davis paced back and forth restlessly. "I'm still not comfortable with this strategy of yours Jon; there are way too many variables for my liking."  
  
Jon O'Neill set the phone on the gleaming oak desk. Leaning back in Jack's comfortable leather chair, he cocked an eyebrow, his mouth curved ironically. "Admit it Davis, what disturbs you isn't the plan; it's the man implementing it."  
  
Davis lowered his eyes. There was no use denying the obvious; this O'Neill spooked him - and more than a just little. "Look Jon, you're just a kid and…"  
  
"Jon O'Neill is more than capable Major Davis." Teal'c cut in coldly. "His stratagem is sound; General O'Neill would approve."  
  
Daniel, sitting dejectedly in the corner of his dead friend's office, roused himself in support, offering Jon a sad smile. "Jack would have liked this plan."  
  
When Colonel Carter and Dr. Jackson filled Davis in on this outlandish idea earlier this morning he'd been shocked.  
  
The general, their leader and friend, was dead. Yet, it was painfully clear that they'd accepted their loss, had in fact pushed the sad fact aside and thought beyond it.  
  
Is this what came of risking your life daily, the ability to seal off your feelings with such calculated determination? He understood the solid Jaffa's ability to perpetuate the clone's authority, anything an O'Neill, even this counterfeit one, did had his support; still, the whole escapade gave the Pentagon's liaison pause. He wondered how they could manage to put their sorrow over O'Neill's loss on hold; or was their need for revenge a driving force?  
  
Taking in Jon's intractable expression, Davis accepted defeat. "Fine, then at least allow me to arrange…"  
  
The door to the office opened briskly, stifling the beleaguered major's next thought. Sam Carter, her shoulders slumped in misery, stepped inside and closed the door.  
  
Taking an empty seat, she directed her weary gaze to Jon. "I sent Hailey off to her quarters to rest. The poor girl is beside herself with grief. I never realized how attached she was to the general."  
  
"What about you Sam?" Daniel asked gently.  
  
Taking a page from the O'Neill book of denial, Sam brushed his concern aside. "I'm fine Daniel. Hailey, Dr. Brightman and I made the funeral arrangements."  
  
A ghost of a smile curved her lips. "Of course the Marines aren't pleased, Colonel Delaney insists that no 'Irishman worth his salt would approve of so meager a sendoff' and I can't help but feel he's right."  
  
"I spoke to the President, Colonel Carter; he insists that the memorial be as he put it, 'one hell of a farewell.'" Major Davis spouted, in an erstwhile effort to comfort her. "I believe General Jumper and half the joint chiefs are planning to attend, that should pacify the base personnel somewhat."  
  
Feeling less than charitable, Sam snapped. "The only thing that might possibly pacify this command, Major Davis is the head of the bastard who did this to our general."  
  
Teal'c smiled coldly, the need for vengeance made his warrior's blood sing. "Indeed."  
  
Jon contemplated her statement quietly, his eyes on his fidgeting hands. Nothing less would satisfy him - it was time to unleash the dogs of war.  
  
Sharing a look of understanding with Daniel, Sam reconsidered. "Actually, not even that will mollify us Major."  
  
Wishing he could retract his last statement, Davis colored visibly. Perhaps the old maxim 'silence is golden' applied here.  
  
A pall of gloom hung over the deathly silent room.  
  
Glancing at his watch, Jon wondered how Jack was faring; clearing his throat, he rose unsteadily from the chair, his fatigue evident. "I believe I'll catch a few winks myself. Think it'd be okay to bed down in Jack's quarters?"  
  
"Indeed." Teal'c exchanged a perceptive look with the younger version of his brother of the soul, bowing his head slightly. "I too need a bit of respite Jon O'Neill, I shall accompany you."  
  
As the two unlikely companions left the room, Daniel couldn't shake the peculiar notion that they were up to something, something he was not going to like. Nope, he was not going to like it one little bit.  
  
&&&  
  
Jeff snapped the last film into the light clip and studied the array of x-rays illuminated in front of him with dismay. According to the evidence revealed here the Unknown Soldier currently fighting to stay alive inside his tiny clinic had been to hell and back - more than once.  
  
In addition to his current skull fracture, visible signs of old traumas taunted Jeff with the man's identity; nearly every bone in this seasoned warrior's body appeared to have sustained some kind of damage at one time or another.  
  
Taking a moment to check the man lying comatose on his treatment room table, Jeff assured himself that his patient was in no immediate danger and then strode out onto the front porch.  
  
Kris, Mischief snuggled up at her side, sat on the porch swing staring off into space. Jack was finally stable and God willing, out of the woods. "How severe is the skull fracture?" Sighing audibly, Jeff sat next to her, running a loving hand down the little Sheltie's flanks. "It's straightforward and non-displaced; our patient is a very lucky man." Snorting, Kris ran a restless hand over her eyes. "I'd hardly call what he's been through today luck, Jeff. Thank God that bullet passed right on through and missed his spleen or we'd be pronouncing him dead."  
  
Jeff took her delicate chin in his hand and turned her heart-shaped face to his, staring deeply into her red rimmed eyes. 'Lord she's a beauty. This guy means more to her than she will let on.'  
  
Kris allowed him to delve into her soul for just a moment then lowered her eyes; Jeff always could read her like a book.  
  
"Yep, I'd say he is a very lucky guy." Jeff whispered wistfully, allowing the past to invade the present briefly. Reverting to concerned physician mode, he continued, "In addition to the bullet wound, loss of blood, hypothermia, multiple contusions and lacerations, not to mention the latest skull fracture, there is clear evidence of multiple incidents of past traumas. Want to fill me in?"  
  
Kris wrapped her arms around her waist and stood up. "I can't tell you much. He fell over a cliff and it took some time to find him…"  
  
"Come on Kris, this isn't some country bumpkin you're snowing here - this is me." Impatient, Jeff jumped up and spun her around to face him. "Either the man lying in my treatment room is a soldier; most likely a career man or he is Evel Knievel. I haven't seen a body in this kind of shape since I treated several special ops officers following a helicopter crash in Desert Storm."  
  
Grasping his shoulders, seeking support, Kris drew in a deep breath. "I…I'd tell you if I could Jeff, but this is a need to know operation."  
  
Searching her face once more Jeff squared his shoulders, this wasn't his first campaign. "Understood; are we in danger?"  
  
Kris laid her head against his broad chest. "I honestly don't know."  
  
Jon carefully closed the heavy door to Jack's base quarters and plopped his tired body onto the regulation cot. Somehow, he had always assumed that once a man made general said cot would be a tad more comfortable.  
  
Teal'c rested against a wall, his arms crossed over his burly chest. "I have disabled the security devices in this room as well Jon O'Neill, no one will overhear our conversation."  
  
Cocking his head to one side, Jon grinned. Always could count on old Teal'c to be one-step ahead of the herd when the chips were down. "You're a good man T."  
  
"Disabling the security system in the general's office proved to be quite revealing," Teal'c lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes, anger simmered beneath his placid façade. Opening his palm, he exposed a crushed microprocessor of some kind.  
  
"Crap, knowing Jack, that wasn't there yesterday." Jon frowned. Jack was too cautious.  
  
"Indeed." Teal'c confirmed. "O'Neill requires a sweep of his office and quarters every twelve hours."  
  
"Well then, we've definitely got a mole somewhere on the base and one who has access to the general's office." Jon stood up and began to pace. "A fact which makes me feel a bit less guilty about keeping Jack's ah…condition just between us."  
  
"It is not the first time you have perpetrated a false perception Jon O'Neill." Teal'c assured him, alluding to another time and place when Jack O'Neill had allowed his team to think he'd betrayed them. "It is the correct course of action, as it was then.  
  
"Tell that to Daniel and Carter when the time comes, will ya." Jon sighed. Pulling his cell phone from his borrowed BDU pocket, He dialed Kris's number.  
  
Kris tucked another warm blanket around Jack's abused and fever wracked body. Barely an inch of the general's taut flesh escaped injury. A night spent outdoors hadn't helped his condition, pneumonia was a very real possibility; auscultation and x-ray confirmed the existence of congestion in his left lung.  
  
Once he'd addressed the bullet wounds, infusing four additional units of whole blood into Jack's veins, Jeff's gifted hands stitched a significant number of the larger jagged cuts, leaving the smaller gashes to the magic of steri-strips.  
  
Janet would certainly approve of Jeff, but would she approve of Kris's decision to perpetuate Jon and Teal'c ruse? Kris wasn't so sure. By bringing the general to this makeshift facility, she'd further risked his life going against her Hippocratic oath. Still, Jack couldn't be in better hands.  
  
Jeff injected the broad-spectrum antibiotic into the intravenous rider. "That little mock ambulance of yours is a veritable cornucopia of modern medical supplies Kris. My clinic's staples are woefully inadequate in comparison."  
  
"The credit goes to a dear friend of mine who is no longer with us Jeff." Kris told him in a sad whisper.  
  
'Damn!' Taking her by the hand, Jeff led her from the room. "Come on, I'll make us a bite to eat." Flipping on the intercom, he continued on to the rear kitchen. "We'll be able to hear the monitors quite clearly via that handy contraption. I occasionally have an overnight patient or two."  
  
Squeezing his sturdy hand, Kris followed reluctantly. "You know Jeff you've got a sweet set-up here; more of a mini-hospital than clinic. I'm grateful."  
  
Pushing Kris into a chair, Jeff set a glass of milk in front of her. "Drink that, and don't thank me yet, our mystery man is still not out of the woods. Every one of those wounds may yet become infected, just what kind of bog did he fall into anyway?"  
  
Disgusted with the whole 'need to know' principle, he continued, "A coating of slimy mud might slow the rate of a bleeding wound, but it's an incredible source of bacteria."  
  
Sipping the milk, Kris's eyelids drooped with fatigue. "Let's hope scrubbing those wounds with disinfectant and pumping him full of antibiotics will do the trick."  
  
Cracking a couple eggs and pouring a touch of milk into a frying pan, Jeff beat the mixture aggressively. "Yeah well, lying in the rain all night sure didn't help."  
  
Rolling her eyes, Kris slumped in her chair. "Please don't remind me."  
  
The sound of twittering birds filled the air.  
  
Ignoring Jeff's mocking laughter, Kris pulled out her cell. "I'll have you know the sound of birds singing is preferable to the jagged screeching of most cell phones." Flipping the device open, she placed it to her ear. "Martin."  
  
Throwing a sidelong glance at the chef of the day, Kris rose from her chair and left the kitchen. "Hang on a sec."  
  
Moving out to the front porch, she settled on a step. "Okay, go ahead."  
  
Jon tried to keep his impatience in check. "Kris how's the package?"  
  
Ah yes, Kris thought, typical O'Neill, right to the point. "Damaged pretty badly…"  
  
"Salvageable?" 'Crap! Reduced to calling Jack a parcel - damn it!' "I mean, how badly…"  
  
The angst in the young O'Neill's voice added to her guilt. "It's still too early to tell Jon. Might I speak with Teal'c please?"  
  
Placing a calming hand on Jon's shoulder, Teal'c took the offered phone. "Captain Martin, you may speak freely we are secure."  
  
"Basically, the package is in critical but stable condition and as yet, unconscious." Kris whispered pointedly, choosing to withhold the exact extent of injuries. "Technically however, this particular bundle has been in much worse shape in the past."  
  
"Then we shall leave its care in your capable hands." Teal'c told her solemnly. "And attempt to reestablish contact again at eighteen hundred hours."  
  
"Right, I'll hang tough. Oh, and Teal'c, be careful." Kris cautioned.  
  
"Indeed we shall." Smiling fondly, Teal'c severed the connection.  
  
Stuffing the cell phone back in her jeans, Kris peeked in on Jack. He hadn't moved a muscle and both his intravenous sites appeared to be intact.  
  
Satisfied that his condition remained unchanged, Kris returned to the kitchen. The heady aroma of bacon and eggs greeted her, causing her empty stomach to growl and her mouth to water in anticipation.  
  
Jeff scooped a healthy portion onto a plate and set it before her. "Eat."  
  
"I suppose you think I find bossy men sexy?" Kris teased. Actually, Jeff's Yiddish momma side always did give her a warm fuzzy feeling. Relaxing slightly, Kris dug in.  
  
Watching her appreciatively for a minute, Jeff remembered another breakfast they'd shared. 'Get over it Prost, that was years ago. Maybe the macho type in the treatment room is fixing her breakfast these days. It's a sure bet she'd wouldn't go to all this trouble for just anybody. A clandestine call, an unidentified man in critical condition, need to know; just what the hell am I mixed up in anyway?'  
  
Refusing to allow his inquisitive side control, Jeff filled another plate for himself and sat down. "I'm not going to ask who that was on the phone; I just hope that the call was secure."  
  
Smiling grimly, Kris patted his hand. "That makes two of us, Jeff."  
  
&&&  
  
Ned's eyes blurred with fatigue, they'd been at it all day without any luck. His deft surfing of the web uncovered many an obscure site filled with hidden Easter eggs of cryptic information, but not one of the vague references revealed anything concrete. Ned's latest find however, alluded to someone called the Marquis.  
  
Intrigued, Ned typed in the keyword Marquis and a list of historical figures popped up on his screen. One of the names on the short list seemed to jump out at him; a sudden errant and perverse thought entered his mind. Glancing over his shoulder to where his superior sprawled in a chair, he entered the keyword 'Marquis de Sade.'  
  
An outrageously sadistic site filled his screen, a site so vulgar in its perversion that the professionally sophisticated hacker cringed. Despite his exposure to the darker side by way of his work for the NID, Ned was essentially a naïve farm boy from Iowa.  
  
Guiding his cursor over a portrait of the infamous Marquis, Ned turned up another Easter egg. "Ah, sir?"  
  
Malcolm Barrett, unable to stand the glare of the computer screen one more second, was 'resting his eyes,' his body draped in a chair. The strident urgency in Ned's voice jolted him back to full awareness. "What have you found, Drew?"  
  
Ned's normally pale face looked flushed and strained. "I think you'd better take a look at this, sir."  
  
'Hell the kid looks like he just walked in on his parents in the throes of passion.' Barrett quickly scooted his chair over to peer at the image displayed on Drew's computer screen. Whistling softly, Malcolm read the information with growing alarm.  
  
Picking up the phone, he dialed the airfield. "Drew, I want this data copied to a cruzer mini drive immediately, you and I are taking the first available flight to Colorado."  
  
&&&  
  
Daniel found Sam sitting in her dark lab alone, the light from the empty hallway illuminated her silhouette. "Sam?"  
  
Sam fingered the general's discarded patch absently, tracing the stitched SG-1 insignia lovingly. "I should never have left him behind, Daniel."  
  
The subtle nuance of her statement was lost on the heart sore archeologist; he too felt as if he had somehow let Jack down.  
  
Moving to her side, Daniel placed an arm around Sam's shuddering shoulders, sharing her guilty sorrow. "Come on Sam, it's late."  
  
Guiding her gently into the brightly lit hall, Daniel caught sight of the object in her hand. "You know Sam, I think Jack missed going through the gate with us more than just a little."  
  
"Ya think?" Sam quipped, mimicking their missing sarcastic friend.  
  
Tucking the patch carefully inside her breast pocket, next to her heart, Sam hooked an arm around Daniel's waist as they walked along. "Things just won't be the same around here without him."  
  
Daniel tightened his hold on her shoulder and nodded. "Our universe won't be the same Sam, not the same at all."  
  
TBC in part six…Web of Deception.


	6. Web of Deception

30

Cjay's Candlestick Chronicles 

**Web Of Deception**

Chapter six: _The Candlestick Chronicles_

_**By Cjay**_

Dr. Jeff Prost checked on the two fat chicken breasts wrapped in foil roasting in his oven, then padded back to his treatment room. Like many a country doctor before him, his clinic was adjacent to his home.

While living virtually in his workplace might seem overwhelming to some, he found it cozy and convenient. His current situation was very different from the urban world he'd spent much of his adult life trying to escape.

With his pup, Mischief, following at his heels, Jeff entered the mini operating/treatment room concerned about the status of his unknown patient. Over the past several hours said patient's condition remained relatively stable. Still, he showed no signs of waking and Captain Kris Martin, R.N. insisted on hovering over him for the better part of the day, refusing to rest. Clearly, her devotion to this man was more than that of a nurse for her patient.

Despite her resolve, it would appear that fatigue finally caught up with her. Kris was asleep in a chair next to the narrow bed where the battered man lay beneath crisp white sheets.

Jeff was confident that this man was military or at the very least, ex-military of some kind; his body betrayed quite an extensive history of past and present trauma, the kind usually restricted to career military types. The fact that the man remained an enigma fascinated him.

From early childhood, his idols wore a mask of some kind. Zorro, Batman, The Lone Ranger, even Superman hid their real identities from the world. It amused Jeff to add his mystery man, his unknown soldier, to this mix. After the bedlam of the first Iraqi conflict, the young doctor counted career military men amongst his list of venerable warriors, champions of the most basic kind.

Yes, Jeff knew in his gut that this man lying so helplessly in his tiny clinic was some kind of hero.

Kris sighed in her sleep. For the first time today, she looked peaceful.

Taking a moment to enjoy her unpretentious beauty, Jeff wondered how it was she'd chosen him to assist in caring for her injured mystery man. Frankly, he'd given up hope she'd ever speak to him again.

He met Kris during the insanity of Desert Storm and she'd become more than just a friend. Unfortunately, after the conflict ended, duty and career separated them. When she posted to Cheyenne Mountain, they reconnected briefly. An argument caused a rift between them just before Jeff retired from the military; he'd not heard from her since.

Still, once she roared into his drive this morning demanding help, memories of what they'd once shared together came flooding back, washing any hard feelings away like a tsunami; he'd let her go too easily.

Initially, he'd been too busy saving the 'unknown soldier' to sort through his tumultuous emotions. Then later, Jeff was preoccupied with checking the man's dressings and vital signs every few minutes. Slowly, the day faded and the fellow's chances for recovery improved.

At eighteen hundred, Kris's cell phone rang once more and a cryptic conversation with someone called 'Tilac' followed. Jeff, unable to persuade Kris to fill him in on just who it was they were treating and why, became downright angry. Not wishing to argue, he'd headed to the kitchen to prepare supper.

Mischief butted his leg with her little body, and then hopped up on the bed beside the unconscious stranger and hunkered down; resting her head between her front paws.

Smiling, Jeff ran a loving hand over the astute Sheltie. "Don't worry girl, I won't neglect him."

Getting down to business, Jeff gave his patient a thorough once over, pleased to find him none the worse and perhaps, a tad improved.

Changing the rate on the dual intravenous fluid pumps, he reset the monitor's alarm volume.

Thanks to Kris's unidentified van/mini-ambulance, he still had several more bags of Lactated Ringers, three liters of 5 Dextrose and another unit of whole blood.

Hanging another rider of antibiotics, he patted Mischief. "Watch over him girl."

Scooping the sleeping Kris into his muscular arms, Jeff carried her to a spare room. Hoping she would sleep through the night, he slowly laid her down. Kris slept on.

The oven timer demanded his attention. Returning to the kitchen, Jeff removed the cooked fowl from the oven. Settling for a quick glass of milk, he placed the meal into the refrigerator. Checking on his patient once more, the good doctor adjusted the volume on the intercom. Then, propping the door ajar, settled in his office, flipped on the television and chose a local news channel hoping for some information.

He would let Kris sleep a while and then, if she stirred, make sure she ate. The mystery man in his clinic might be of foremost importance to her, but her health mattered just as much to him.

Molly 'Sassy' O'Connor bustled about her day with a song in her heart. She'd spent her afternoon offering what friendship and comfort she could. Her role as one of Norfolk General Hospital's Pink Ladies was a fulfilling one; she relished her ability to elicit a smile from those who had little reason for joy.

Pulling her Jeep carefully into her driveway, she retrieved her bag of groceries from the back seat.

As she approached her back door, the sound of the phone ringing hastened her stride. Breathless, Sassy snagged the phone just as her answering machine revved up. "Molly O'Connor here."

"Sassy, it's me, Daniel." Daniel was unable to keep a slight tremble from his voice. "Sassy, I don't know how to…"

Molly O'Connor, ex-military wife, knew that tone all too well; her glad heart sank. "Just give it to me straight Danny. What's wrong?"

"Jack's dead." Daniel's voice broke.

Jonathan was gone. In the twinkle of an eye, she'd lost him; her world shifted on its axis. Sassy sat down and swallowed hard. "What happened?"

As Daniel quickly and brokenly filled her in, Sassy's mind raced. "I will catch the first plane out Danny and…"

"I'm sorry Sass. The funeral tomorrow is strictly military." Daniel told her sadly. "No civilians allowed."

"Nonsense!" Sassy protested. "I'm a military widow that should count for…"

"It counts, Sassy." Daniel told her sadly, his heart bleeding for the woman who'd lost a military son, her husband and now her 'adopted laddie' as well. "And if it were up to me…"

"It's not up to you though, is it my boy?" Sassy replied with equal sadness. "I understand. Lay a rose on my Jonathan's casket for me then, Danny Boy." Unable to contain her tears any longer, Sassy ended the call.

Something warm and wooly nestled against his side, distracting him from his silent prison of torment.

He'd been floating in a dark, empty abyss - devoid of sound or sensation. Floating for God knew how long, an eternity perhaps.

Then quite suddenly, searing pain filled the void with white-hot agony. Pain was no stranger. No, rather it was a form of release from the prison of the unknown, an almost welcome mixture of searing agony and blistering ache.

Fragmented flashes of memory ricocheted inside his scrambled skull, nightmares too often endured; he knew the routine.

The soft, squirming bit of fuzzy warmth stirred against his naked torso; something cold and definitely wet nuzzled his hand.

Startled, he sluggishly hoped that whoever or whatever beastie sought his warmth meant him no harm.

A warm, wet and slightly rough tongue caressed his abraded fingers and wrist. He found it rather pleasant.

A word entered his still muzzy brain, a word that never failed to bring him a sense of peace - dog. A dog was fussing over him. On the other hand, he thought with a shard of alarm, maybe it was a wolf. Nope, this creature offered comfort and sought nothing in return, so then, not a wolf.

With effort, Jack's fingers tangled in the fur and the little ball of fluff snuggled in closer.

Sounds invaded his awareness. Beep, beep, whoosh…ah crap, sounds he knew all too well.

The pungent bite of alcohol and sickeningly sweet scent of iodoform filled his nostrils. Another word, this one less pleasant, entered his bleary head - infirmary.

Brightness blazed beyond his closed eyelids, lids he found too heavy to lift at present. The consoling warmth of the little dog crept closer still. Despite the abject misery his body now suffered, Jack no longer faced it alone. Blackness claimed him once more.

Jeff stood abruptly, peering at the photograph behind the newscaster. As the newsflash ended, he snapped off the television and returned to the treatment room to check on his not so 'unknown soldier.'Taking a moment, to check over the monitors and intravenous fluids, he then looked closely at the bruised and swollen face of the 'mystery man.'

Lying limply on his back, with Mischief cuddled up at his side, O'Neill appeared far less formidable than his photograph. Nonetheless, he **was** the supposedly deceased brigadier general.

Rocking back on his heels, Jeff whistled softly. "Hello, general." Placing the earpieces of his stethoscope thoughtfully into his ears, the intrigued ex-major set about performing his umpteenth assessment of the day.

Kris startled awake. A dim light shone in the hallway. 'Damn! How long have I been asleep?' Jumping up, she rushed back to the room where her general lay.

Kris took in the small dog protectively asleep next to her commanding officer - her cherished friend. She gratefully noted Jack's abused right hand tangled in the sheltie's fur and the relived expression on the face of the empathetic physician hunched over him. "Thank God."

Moving forward, Kris placed a thankful hand on Jeff's shoulder. "He woke up alone." She whispered with regret. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep."

Bothered by Kris's deception and yet, elated the general would live, Jeff ran his fingers lightly over Mischief's flanks. "So it would seem." He rasped.

The risk she'd taken bringing O'Neill here in his condition was staggering.

Ignoring the alarm bells going off in his head, Jeff confirmed her speculation. "Our patient's lungs are clearing and his level of consciousness has improved, but it'll be some time before he truly wakes up."

Mischief gazed at her master with soulful eyes, still entangled in O'Neill's grasp.

Turning to Kris, Jeff captured her hand and ushered her from the room. "Mischief will watch over General O'Neill, it's time for the truth."

Stunned, Kris allowed him to pull her into his office. How in God's name did he learn the general's identity? "I've already told you all I can Jeff, this is a need to know situation."

"So, then if you won't talk, listen." The perturbed physician pushed the stubborn woman into a chair.

Gathering her reserves, Kris sat back and nodded.

Leaning back in a chair opposite from hers, elbows planted, his long fingers forming a steeple, Jeff sighed. "Here is what I know. According to the news, a General Jonathan O'Neill died last night. Supposedly, the car he was traveling in went over a cliff and both he and his driver were killed on impact."

"Really?" Kris asked feigning innocence.

Jeff stood up and leaned over her. Staring into her face, he did his best impression of Perry Mason. "Then, early this morning you turn up with a critically injured man asking for my help. An unidentified man, a man whose injuries just happen to be consistent with a rapid uncontrolled descent of some kind, like say, oh, a tumble over a cliff?"

Refusing to react, Kris, set her jaw. This secret was not hers to divulge. Regret was not a luxury someone in her position could afford. She understood very well that lies and misconceptions were necessary to protect Jack's life; and quite possibly, the life of both the incensed man standing before her, and her own.

"A man who looks very much like the supposedly deceased General O'Neill." Jeff continued pacing back and forth in front of her chair, hands clasped behind his back. "And, said general is an Air Force officer. You, my dear old friend, are also an Air Force officer and, coincidentally, assigned to the same command as O'Neill, Cheyenne Mountain Complex."

Jeff squatted down alongside her chair and stared directly into her eyes.

Kris took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. He smelled of juniper pine and desert winds.

"Need to know." She bit off tersely, her body rigid.

Jeff's frustration grew. Damn it, didn't she know she could trust him? "Look, we both know I've got… rather I had, high enough clearance at one time. That man in there **is** Brigadier General Jonathan O'Neill. I just saved his life and I am guessing, your butt as well. Don't you think I deserve to at least know what the heck is going on?"

"You are right, you do deserve to know." Kris responded flatly, her green eyes hard. "I, however, do not have the right to tell you."

Jeff stood up, running his hands over his face, trying to control his temper. "Okay, then who the hell does?"

Thinking fast, Kris came up with an answer she knew would stall him, at least for the moment. "General O'Neill."

Dropping into his chair, Jeff leaned an elbow on his desk, rested his chin in his hand and covered his mouth.

Damn, she knew him all too well. "I'm guessing that he won't have very much to say for a while."

He never could beat her at poker, but then she played a lousy game of chess. "Suppose you pick another voice of authority, like say, this Tilac fellow? He's called at least twice. It would seem he has a lot to say in the matter. "

Raising her eyebrow, Kris smiled ironically. "I don't think he will enlighten you either."

Reaching into his back pocket, Jeff pulled out Kris's cell phone. "We'll see. You've got till 0900 hours to come to your senses, and then, I call the number displayed in this little contraption's memory."

Refusing the bait, Kris snorted, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest with a sneer.

"Hah! I deleted the number." She bluffed.

Jeff played with the small buttons on the cell panel. The last several calls had come from the same number. Quickly memorizing them, he re-pocketed the phone smugly. "Checkmate."

Visibly attempting to gather his last shred of control, Barrett stared impatiently at the hapless man standing rigidly before him. "What do you mean all flights are grounded?"

Lloyd Dooley maintained his composure. "All flights are delayed due to the weather, Agent Barrett. If you'd like to wait in the terminal lounge, I'd be happy to alert you as soon as we receive clearance."

"I'm not sure you understand the gravity of…" Barrett began stubbornly.

"I assure you Agent Barrett, I do." The seasoned customer service representative replied firmly. "The lounge is down this corridor to your right."

Malcolm Barrett was not generally a man given to using foul language. However, the words currently flowing freely from his angry lips startled the young computer wizard waiting by his side.

Unimpressed, Dooley returned Barrett's unyielding stare. "I repeat, once the weather clears, I will notify you. Until then, I suggest you make yourselves comfortable in the lounge." With that, he returned his attention determinedly to the papers scattered on the counter before him.

Effectively dismissed, Malcolm, realizing further argument would be fruitless, turned to look at his companion.

Ned's cheeks were flushed, his eyes thoughtful. "Perhaps, if you call Colonel Carter…"

Moving swiftly away from the counter and toward the lounge, Barrett silenced him with a curt shake of his head. "Too risky. This information needs to be relayed in person."

"But, sir, no one will fly us out of Washington in this weather." Ned Drew protested.

A look of revelation altered Agent Barrett's annoyed features. "Not out of Washington, no. Let's take a little drive."

Thirty minutes later, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat of his boss's black sedan, Ned Drew tightened his seat belt and wondered if this was a good idea. His boss drove like a bat out of hell!

Okay, so the weather in Washington D.C. was rough, what guarantee did they have that the weather would be any less of a problem in Virginia? "Ah, sir? If it's raining this hard here in D.C. it is most likely also raining in…"

"Not necessarily, Ned." Barrett cut him off. "I've got a hunch we'll be able to get off safely. If not, then at least we're doing something besides sitting on our hands."

"Okay, there is that…" Ned conceded.

"Relax kid; believe it or not there is a method to my madness." Malcolm smiled grimly.

The information he and Ned uncovered this morning might mean the difference between life and death, if they could get it to Colonel Carter in time. They had already lost General O'Neill; he would not have the boy's loss on his conscience too.

A computer-generated ditty filled the air. Amused, Ned recognized the strains of an old song, Secret Agent Man.

Ignoring Ned's smirk, Barrett answered his cell phone. "Barrett."

"Malcolm Barrett?" A woman's voice asked.

"Yes, to whom am I speaking?" Barrett barked. This was a secure line; he used it only for matters related to his work.

"Malcolm, its Molly O'Connor." Sassy intoned confidently. "Remember that favor you promised me? Well, I'm calling in my marker."

As the shiny black sedan pulled onto the wet suburban street and parked in front of a red brick ranch, Ned breathed a sigh of relief. The storm that had socked in the airports in Washington D.C. moved northward.

The Norfolk, Virginia skies were clearing. It looked like the boss's hunch paid off. "Boss, are you sure about this? I mean this is a government…"

"Zip it, Drew. We've been over this already." Barrett snapped. Okay so the kid had a point. This was government business and no place for a civilian, but he owed the woman big time.

Gulping, Ned pushed. "No sir, I beg to differ. All I know is that you owe the lady a favor. Forgive me, but that is not enough information for me to break the regulations."

Malcolm Barrett snorted wryly, what a time for the kid to grow a backbone.

Engaging the sedan's brake, he switched off the ignition. "You're right."

"I am?" Ned squeaked.

Rolling his eyes, Barrett confirmed, "Yes you are."

"So then…" Ned ventured.

Rubbing his chin with discomfort, the special agent began his explanation. "About nineteen months ago, Mrs. O'Connor saved both the then Colonel O'Neill and Dr. Jackson's butt."

"Really? Isn't she like seventy-five years old?" Ned asked incredulous.

Smiling, Barrett nodded. "Probably, in his report O'Neill referred to her as 'savvy, and spry,' and labeled her 'better back-up than an entire platoon of marines.' "

"Okay…" Ned began, dubiously.

"I have to admit his description was apt." Malcolm told him quietly. Drew's huff and shocked expression, illuminated by the streetlights, seemed to mock him. "Using her dead husband's naval issue pistol the little lady took out two bogies like a pro. O'Neill took credit for the kills."

Barrett's tone betrayed his approval. "He didn't want Mrs. O'Connor getting into trouble."

Whistling with admiration, Ned prodded. "I understand why O'Neill would owe her, but why you boss?"

"Because Ned, she did my job." Barrett told him tightly. "One of the bogies was a rouge NID agent."

"Ah." Ned understood completely. One of Malcolm Barrett's priorities was to make sure the NID stayed clean.

"And I've got a sneaking suspicion," Barrett continued thoughtfully, "That Mrs. O'Connor just may be the solution to one of our problems."

Eyeing his superior knowingly, Ned agreed. "Well then, we give the lady a ride."

Once the trio arrived at Norfolk Naval Base, it was another four hours before they were airborne. They would be lucky to make Colorado Springs by late morning.

Sitting back in his seat Ned Drew, computer genius and Iowa farm-boy admired the fortitude the petite Mrs. O'Connor exhibited. Clearly, she was distraught, but she kept her grief carefully to herself, making polite conversation.

Ned found she had a knack for gleaning information; he'd unwittingly told her his entire life story. Somehow he didn't mind her inquisitiveness, she reminded him of his great aunt. Using the same cajoling technique he often used on his dear auntie, Ned encouraged her to tell him about General O'Neill.

Ned was a computer geek, a behind the scene type. Thus, he never met the deceased general and yet, after spending a few hours with his 'foster mother,' felt as if he knew O'Neill rather well. He was glad the boss owed her a favor.

For his part, Malcolm worried about the bizarre and sinister plans of the devious cabal Drew's persistence had uncovered.

O'Neill's death was a damn waste. Clearly, a breach in base security was a primary factor in his untimely demise. Someone had screwed up royally. Barrett was confident the Air Force would be less than thrilled about his involvement in uncovering their glaring omission.

Thinking it over, he thought it best to present his arrival merely as a gesture of respect for O'Neill. Then, when the opportunity presented itself, he'd speak with Colonel Carter alone.

Once the plane landed, Barrett attempted to make contact with the colonel and learned of the impending funeral arrangements. The service was at noon, they had just enough time to get a bite to eat, formulate a plan and attend.

While Ned kept Mrs. O'Connor company, Barrett arranged for a proper car.

Insisting they have a healthy breakfast, he instructed Ned to drive to a local restaurant. Then, while the lady freshened up, he filled Ned in. "I understand that the service is private, so you and I will wait in the car. Once it's over, I'll find some way to speak with the colonel."

"What if they won't let Sassy attend?" Ned worried. "It'll break her heart."

Malcolm Barrett eyed the lady in question as she maneuvered determinedly through the crowded restaurant. "Well Ned, I'd sure hate to be the man who tries to stop her."

Teal'c woke the younger O'Neill at 0830 hours and presented him with clean clothing.

Jon held the slacks and dress shirt up for measure; they would fit just fine. "Where did you get these T?"

"Of late, Daniel Jackson keeps several modes of dress here at the base for diplomatic meetings." The Jaffa explained handing him a matching blazer. "These will fit you quite well, Jon O'Neill, you have not yet attained your full height."

Jon eyed the clothing sourly. "I hate funerals Teal'c." He whispered.

"As do I." Teal'c agreed. "However, it is necessary."

"Right then, I'm off to get the kinks out." Clamping a lid on his melancholy, Jon stumbled off to shower.

Teal'c's cell phone rang, flipping it open he checked the digital displayed. The number was that of Captain Kris Martin's cell phone; however, his Jaffa training made him cautious. "Hello?"

"Tilac?" A strange man's voice asked.

Teal'c hesitated, his body poised for battle. "To whom am I speaking?"

Jeff heard the caution in the other man's voice.

"Don't hang up. My name is Jeff Prost. I've been helping Kris repackage your item."

Teal'c spent years learning the art of deflection from the master - O'Neill. Assuming a reasonable imitation of the general's light and subtly mocking tone, he began the game. "You are a postal worker then?"

"No, as I said, I am involved in the care of your **package**." Jeff replied, stressing the word package.

"Ah, you work for UPS." Teal'c queried, enjoying the diversion.

"No…" Jeff began irritably. He knew this maneuver.

"Fed Ex?" Teal'c volleyed.

"Look, stonewalling me is a waste of time." Annoyed, the earnest physician pinched the bridge of his nose in disgust.

"I don't understand. Perhaps, your assistant would be more adept in communicating what it is you require?" The Jaffa suggested blandly.

"Okay, you win, I'm handing this over to Kris." Shaking his head, Jeff tossed her the phone.

Catching the small device one handed, she pursed her lips, wagging a finger at the belligerent doctor. "Teal'c, its Kris Martin. I'm afraid we have a situation. My **assistant** knows the identity of the package and demands it be delivered ASAP."

"Has the package become damaged beyond repair, Captain Martin?" Teal'c demanded using his Jaffa bark.

"No." Kris assured him. "But…"

Gratified that O'Neill was in no further danger, Teal'c deduced that the man had seen the newscast.

Regrettably, the release of the information contained in the news bulletin had been essential. Following his earlier conversation with Captain Martin, Teal'c made it his business to access Major Jeffery Prost's file.

The information contained in that file assured the seasoned Jaffa that the ex-major was trustworthy.

"Tell him that the delivery must wait." Teal'c instructed. "I shall contact you again, later this afternoon. Until then, do what you must to insure the package remains safe."

**_Funeral for a Friend. _**

Sassy clutched the small bouquet of red roses, staring out the rain-spattered window, her mind filled with sorrow. As the car pulled into the cemetery, she could see the military Honor Guard gathered before a freshly dug grave and the flag draped coffin lying forlornly on its stand. A small group of mourners stood to one side as a bugler played taps.

As soon as the vehicle halted, she grabbed her umbrella and slid out of the passenger seat in a rush, attempting to make her way to the gravesite. A solemn airman stopped her cold. "I'm sorry ma'am, this is a closed service."

"You'll not oppose me young man!" Sassy ordered. "Step aside! I've come to bid my Jonathan a proper goodbye."

Swallowing back a tear, Airman Stokes raised his arm, preventing the older woman's progress. "I am very sorry ma'am. I have my orders."

Unmoved, Sassy raised her umbrella and shook it at the muscular airman. "Stand aside or I shall be forced to crack your thick skull with my umbrella!"

Her angry protest carried to the group gathered at the grave. Sam Carter recognized the enraged voice and knew in an instant just which member of SG-1 had informed the general's foster mother of his demise.

Exchanging a knowing look with Daniel, she nodded her consent.

Flushing slightly, Daniel made his way swiftly to Sassy's side and wrapped a protective arm around her trembling shoulders. "It's alright airman. This lady was dear to General O'Neill."

Startled, Airman Stokes lowered his arm. "My apologies ma'am, I…I was not aware."

Patting the airman's sleeve, Sassy's sad smile offered absolution. "Of course not young man. Forgive me, I 'm a bit overcome."

Nodding, Stokes watched sadly, as Dr. Jackson led the now visibly shaking elderly woman to the grave.

Jon watched Sassy's approach with remorse. A sudden biting wind created a whirlwind of wet leaves around his feet. 'Damn it, Daniel couldn't you for once be a thoughtless bastard!' It was bad enough the entire base was in mourning. Now a sweet and loving old woman was suffering as well. 'Crap!'

Teal'c, sensing the young O'Neill's mood, caught his eye and lifted his chin with a mixture of dignity and determination.

Jon could almost hear Teal'c's deep bass voice cautioning, "It is necessary, stay the course."

Teal'c was convinced all would be well. Nevertheless, Jon's angst kept him from getting more than a couple hours of much needed sleep.

Worry over Jack's injuries nagged at him constantly. He hated leaving him behind. Oh, he understood that Kris would make damned sure Jack received the best of care and she'd assured them by phone that his condition was stable. Still, it rankled.

Now surrounded by so much grief, his guilt escalated. Jon tuned out the sound of the mourners, the bugler and the Honor Guard's rifle volleys. Clenching his jaw, he focused distressed eyes on anything except the coffin draped in the stars and stripes.

Sassy's tearful gaze traveled hungrily over the small group of mourners. A young man, a stripling really, caught her attention. Curious, she studied him intently between her sobs.

The lad's jaw was set, his body stiff, his eyes dry and yet clearly aggrieved. He bore a striking resemblance to another lanky individual of her acquaintance, one who'd made a habit of hiding his feelings. She knew those poignant sable eyes.

Jonathan's son was deceased. His headstone, glistening with rain, stood clearly visible beside the open grave. Exactly who was this young man?

Jon, felt her interest and returned her stare. Recognition flared briefly behind his haunted mask. A deep furrow creased the previously unmarred flesh between his eyebrows; he looked away.

Daniel clutched Sassy's hand tightly as a tear rolled unchecked down his cheek. Her motherly presence gave him comfort.

This was his worse nightmare realized. After so many near misses, he had finally lost his best friend. His straining ears would never hear another inane joke told with Jack's acerbic wit. Nor would he enjoy arguing with anyone just for the pure joy of it, ever again.

Wrapping his arm around Sassy more securely, Daniel wept.

Sam Carter, her eyes unnaturally dry, bit her lip until it bled. This man, this warrior, possessed of a boundless capacity to persevere, who gave all of himself expecting nothing in return, was gone.

She would never feel secure again. A chill ran up her rigid spine; she felt as if she were being hunted, watched, and stalked. Refusing to bow to a grief-induced sensation of dread; she concentrated on maintaining a strict military bearing.

As the echo of gunfire faded away, Jennifer Hailey, saluting along with the Honor Guard, relaxed her arm slowly.

Wearing the camouflage of military indifference, she moved to take Jon's hand, enclosing his icy fingers, hoping to instill warmth. "It's over." She whispered with despair.

This then, was the end. They'd said goodbye. Or, was this morbid affair some kind of macabre and surreal joke destiny played on those who trusted, needed and loved Jack O'Neill?

What kind of higher power would reward such a noble, self-effacing hero in this way; duplicated without his knowledge, forced to beg mercy, despite his uneasiness, for that very same unwelcome carbon copy. Then, in order to maintain his sanity, and to protect his younger 'self,' discard his clone - never to look back. And finally, confronted by a plot, which necessitated the retrieval of this source of discomfort, lose his life as a by-product? How strange and cruel the twisted hand of fate!

Jon welcomed the warmth of her small hand, drawing strength from her open acceptance. Hailey alone seemed to comprehend what Jack's death would cost him; he cursed the need to deceive her.

Outside the iron fence of the graveyard, behind a large hedge, a lone watcher stood huddled in the rain. There was nothing more for him to see here, it was time he moved on. Keeping the foliage between himself and the congregation beside the grave, he hurried to a gray Jeep parked beside the church and drove away.

Kris leaned her forehead against the cool pane of glass, staring sightlessly outward, summoning the courage to do what she must. Dark clouds and icy rain heightened the gloomy mood of the day while she pondered the challenge before her.

Jack's condition, while stable, remained grave. Just as Jeff feared, his wound was infected.

Gunshot wounds are never pretty, but an infected wound, now that is something requiring a very strong stomach. Changing Jack's dressings shook her resolve.

While the jagged exit wound on his back looked clean, the smaller entry site displayed angry red streaks that wove their way outward from the neat stitches. Further, it appeared bruised and puffy with unreleased purulent matter.

The little sheltie, still keeping watch over her new charge, whined softly, her animated face worried.

Kris found the creature's sensitivity touching and her intellect astounding. "Go get Jeff girl."

Washing her hands, she returned to the window and directed a fervent prayer skyward asking for assistance from above. A shiver of dread ran through her. Losing this man was not an option; he meant too much to too many, including her.

A voice she knew all too well swelled inside her head…'Suck it up Captain.' Smiling grimly, Kris obeyed.

Tearing open a suture removal set and iodoform swabs, she laid out a set of sterile gloves for Jeff and then donned another pair.

A determined Kris was cleaning the wound liberally with the antiseptic as Jeff, following his canine companion, joined her. Without a word, he washed his hands and applied both mask and gloves.

Finishing her preparation, Kris removed her soiled gloves, rewashed, masked and re-gloved.

Jeff assessed the wound quickly. Taking a set of small scissors, he cut several stitches, releasing a stream of yellow and bloody pus. Re-swabbing the area liberally, he then applied gentle pressure forcing more of the vile fluid to leave the confines of O'Neill's flesh; that done, the two medical experts redressed the wound.

Removing his gloves and mask, Jeff washed, pondering his next move. "This infection isn't responding to the medications we have on hand. He is going to need a stringent course of third generation antibiotics, Kris. I just don't stock anything like that here…"

Placing a staying hand on his arm, Kris agreed. "I'll make a call. I have to warn you, this may lead to our discovery."

Understanding the implication, Jeff grinned crookedly. Following their bizarre conversation with the man Teal'c, she laid the entire scenario out for him. "It's been awhile, but I'm pretty sure I can take out any unfriendly types should the need arise. I still have my sidearm and a hunting rifle or two somewhere around here. Make the call."

Visions of an old western movie filled her head. "Ho, there hombre, I doubt it'll come to a standoff." Kris quipped as she moved to the phone hanging near the door. "Least, I hope not." She muttered under her breath.

Checking the time, she noted it was 1230 hours. The mock funeral would still be in progress.

Punching in the numbers that would put her call through to Dr. Brightman's office, she glanced back at Jack with a worried frown.

A soft voice responded after the first ring. "CMO office, Captain Brightman here."

Captain Brightman, only recently posted to the SGC, remained a bit of a puzzle. Kris was unsure of either the gentle doctor's fortitude or her willingness to venture beyond regulations, even for a good cause.

Captain Kris Martin took a deep steadying breath, wishing Janet were still alive. "Dr. Brightman, Kris Martin here. I need your help."

Airman Stokes eyed the black sedan suspiciously. The fact that it conveyed the general's 'dear lady' here for the services mitigated his suspicions slightly, but until he got a visual on the driver, Stokes planned to scrutinize the car closely.

Thus, he paid little attention to preparations taking place at the very periphery of the old churchyard. After all, this was a burial ground.

Damien Wellington, dressed in rough coveralls, guided a backhoe easing it alongside an old and crumbing headstone. Manipulating the controls, he began the arduous process of digging a fresh grave.

His assistant, Charles Duff, maintained his guise of directing the process, all the while gazing through incredibly thick eyeglasses.

Damien congratulated himself once again on his genius. Old Charles actually had twenty-twenty vision. His 'spectacles' were, in reality, a pair of cleverly disguised binoculars. Charles, deaf since birth, possessed a unique talent. Lip reading came naturally to him, as did the art of ignoring the screams of those who had the misfortune to annoy his idol, Damien; it required only that he remove his hearing aids.

Satisfied that both he and his **_guide_** remained virtually ignored and undetected, Wellington shut off the heavy machine, jumping down beside Duff, tapping him lightly. "Well then Charles, have you learned anything of value?"

Pulling his cap low, Charles turned around. Removing his 'visual aid,' he read the question in his boss's expression. Duff's slack lips formed a feral grin exposing crooked and nicotine stained teeth. The light of insanity gleamed in his eyes. He nodded.

Wiping the rain and spatters of mud from his face, Wellington's thin lips formed a semblance of a smile. "Well then, my dear fellow let us adjourn to a more congenial spot for a hot toddy."

Malcolm Barrett lowered his opera glasses and handed them to his companion. "Take a look Drew; recognize either of those two over there next to the backhoe?"

When his boss pulled the tiny flat boxlike device from his inner breast pocket, Drew thought it was a cigarette case. Once the contraption was unfolded, he smiled ruefully, leave it to the boss to come prepared.

Placing the small lenses over his eyes, Drew peered through the smoky glass of the windshield and studied the pair.

Rain and mist warred with his vision. The smaller man, wearing thick eyeglasses, was a stranger. Spotted with mud, the face of his companion appeared distorted. "I'm not sure..."

The grimy man pulled a large red bandanna from his pocket and swiped at the dirt. "Wait a minute…oh my God. Boss, I think that is the Marquis!" Excited and afraid at once, Drew made to get out of the automobile.

Barrett stopped him with a firm hand. "Sit back, Drew!"

"But…" Drew questioned, releasing the door handle.

"Now we have a lead." Barrett told him coldly. He took note of the group of mourners leaving O'Neill's grave. "Hop out and see if Sassy will catch a ride with Jackson and tell the colonel I'd like a word."

"Why…" Drew began.

"Because, you've never been in the field before and, if this Marquis is as clever as we think, he may recognize me!" Barrett snapped. "Just be natural."

Swallowing, Ned slid the door opened and walked over to Sassy, still leaning heavily on Jackson's arm. "Mrs. O'Connor? Perhaps, you'd be more comfortable riding along with this fellow here?" He whispered, gently taking her hand. "I'll come along later if you like and collect you."

Thinking the young man was her driver Daniel quickly acquiesced. Sassy's presence was welcome. "That is a good idea Sass; we are getting together over at Jack's house for a final goodbye."

Sassy's red-rimmed eyes looked up into Drew's earnest face. What was he trying to tell her? Under the pretext of hugging Ned, she whispered. "I don't know exactly what you and Malcolm are up too, but I'll comply." Patting his shoulder, she pushed back. "I'll call the number on the card when I'm ready to return to the hotel then."

Bowing his head slightly, Ned agreed. "Yes Ma'am."

As Daniel and Sassy moved off, Ned angled his stride alongside that of the colonel. "Colonel Carter." He rasped softly. "Agent Barrett would like a word."

Preoccupied with controlling her grief, Sam at first ignored the driver, until he hissed her name. Raising a brow, she nodded slightly and moved to inform Teal'c. "Teal'c, I've arranged alternate transport. I'll meet you at the general's in a few minutes."

Teal'c followed her gaze to the dark rental car and took note of the license plate. The window opened slightly and a familiar pair of hazel eyes stared back. "I shall await you at O'Neill's." Teal'c intoned quietly.

Sam followed the unknown driver calmly and slid into the rear of the sedan, piercing Barrett with an intense frown. "I take it either you've uncovered something or you've missed me, Agent Barrett."

Barrett returned the frown, ah sarcasm, an O'Neill legacy. Shifting over behind the wheel he motioned for Ned to get in the backseat with the colonel. "Ned here will explain everything while I drive."

Pulling slowly out of the cemetery, Barrett edged his dark vehicle discreetly behind a few lush bushes. Within seconds, the dilapidated truck carrying the Marquis and his minion came into view. Hanging back, he began a surreptitious pursuit.

Captain Brightman slipped a dozen small intravenous bags filled with antibiotic solution into the large pockets of her raincoat.

Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath. Then, made her way causally to the elevator, and hit the button for the mouth of the mountain where the sentry post awaited.

Following O'Neill's death Major Kearney tightened security. She hoped her bulging pockets wouldn't alert the guard.

Airman Jefferson greeted the staid doctor as she hurried from the final elevator. While the captain seemed competent enough, Ben missed the fiery Dr. Fraiser. Handing her a clipboard, he requested she sign out. Something nagged at him about the usually composed Captain's body language. "Are you okay, Doc?"

Keeping her eyes on the clipboard in her hand, Brightman tried intimidation. "I was going over your files earlier Jefferson. It would appear you are due for quite a few vaccinations."

Slapping the board into his hands with an unconcerned smile, she continued, "Come see me at, oh say, 0900 Monday and we'll make sure you're properly covered."

Stifling a groan, Jefferson saluted, snapping to attention. "Ma'am, yes Ma'am.!"

Brightman left quickly before the airman regained his composure.

Pulling his gray Jeep into the visitor parking lot, he caught sight of Dr. Brightman's hasty departure. The slender woman's raincoat pockets seemed unnaturally full. He watched her awkwardly climb into a silver Ford coup, head out of the parking lot and off the base. Curious, he followed.

Kris remained a bit stunned. It took less persuasion than she would have thought to coax Dr. Brightman into agreeing to remove a dozen doses of very expensive antibiotics from the base without proper clearance and meet her with the contraband.

Oh, Brightman objected stringently at first. Kris hated to lie, but lie she had, all the while knowing that she might very well be throwing her career away. Jack's life was worth whatever it took.

Jeff offered Kris the keys to his motorcycle and a shiny red helmet, shaking his head ruefully. "That, was one huge whopper you told that lady doctor. Bankrupt clinic, orphans in need…Remind me to enlist your help for the next charity auction, will ya?"

"Oh, shut up and give me those keys." Kris nudged him over with her elbow, straddling the bike's saddle.

"Watch yourself." Jeff told her worried. "And do me a favor; try to stick to the speed limit."

Making a face, Kris stuck out her tongue. "Don't suck the joy of it out for me." Sobering, she tried the helmet on for size and continued, "Leave the driving to me. You take good care of our patient."

Jeff gave her a short salute. "Roger that, oh and Kris, - be careful."

Kris rolled her eyes, glanced at her watch, cranked the engine and then sped off, spaying gravel behind her.

Peering through the gloom of the waning afternoon, Elizabeth Brightman recited the directions Kris had given her. The sign over the less than agreeable establishment read: The Blue Harbor. 'Surely, this seedy bar wasn't the right place?' Locating the address, posted beneath filthy neon lights, she pulled her coup under a streetlamp.

Wary, she slipped her side arm into her hip pocket. It never hurt to be prepared.

Gravel crunched loudly beneath her heels as she made her way hesitantly inside the rough building. Smoke and the stench of stale beer assailed her sensitive nostrils. The interior was as at least as dismal as the exterior. 'Why would Kris request a meeting here?'

Sitting at the bar, she scanned the faces reflected in the mirror behind a rather sexy, but dangerous looking bartender, mostly male, except for one lone female, whose hair obscured her features.

The barkeep leaned on his elbows and stared into her eyes with a roguish grin. "What'll it be gorgeous?"

Looking up at him through her lashes, Liz offered him a brief smile. "Whiskey, neat."

Raising a brow, the barman pursed his lips. Nodding, he placed her order on the bar. "Anything else…"

"Back off, she's with me." A husky, yet, very feminine voice barked. Kris swaggered over and sat next to Brightman, throwing an arm over the other woman's shoulder. Leaning over she whispered, "Play along Doc, this is a rough crowd."

Catching on quickly, Liz rested her head against Kris's shoulder. "Is there somewhere we could be less conspicuous?"

"I've got a table in the corner doll." Kris paid for Brightman's drink and then led her over to the table indicated. "Sorry about this, I wasn't aware of this place's reputation."

Relived, Liz hung her raincoat over a chair and took a gulp from her glass. Coughing slightly, she caught her breath and hissed. "Orphans huh? Suppose you tell me what is really going on here, Captain Martin?"

Shaking her head regretfully, Kris tried deflection. "It's a need to know operation Captain. I would tell you everything if I could. Just be assured, you will be very glad you stuck your neck out this way."

"Not you too?" Liz muttered. She'd known her posting to the SGC required her to walk in the shadowy world of secrecy, but she never guessed the long fingers of intrigue would draw her in so deep.

Studying Kris critically for a long minute, she came to a decision. "Okay, for now I trust you. I've got to get back to the SGC."

Tossing the remainder of her whiskey back, Liz Brightman wiped her mouth delicately on a napkin and then left, leaving her medication-laden topcoat behind.

Staying in character, Kris watched her backside as she sashayed out the door. Then finishing her beer, she scooped up the coat and left by the rear door.

The watcher waited a moment and then followed; he slid behind the wheel of his Jeep. Smiling grimly, he kept an inconspicuous distance and followed the red motorcycle up the road and into the backcountry.

TBC in chapter seven…**_Arachnoids eat their young_.**

7682 words.


	7. Arachnoids eat their young

22

**Arachnoids eat their young**.

**_Chapter seven of the Candlestick Chronicles_**

**_By Cjay_**

Jennifer Hailey cast one last look of farewell toward the solitary casket. The past hour had been interminable. Clutching Jon's cold hand, she pulled him gently up the gravel path away from General O'Neill's open grave.

A sudden icy blast of wind caught Jon O'Neill full in the face, crystallizing his unshed tears. Frozen shards of derisive insight ran up his ramrod spine as he allowed the petite woman to drag him along. Consumed by guilt and a burning need for revenge, he glanced back toward the macabre site of Jack's 'final resting place.' He wondered if anyone else realized the irony of his position. By participating in this ritual, he was essentially burying himself.

Abrupt interaction between Teal'c and Sam Carter distracted Jack's clone from his turbulent thoughts. Curious, he stopped short, his eyes following Carter as she climbed into a strange sedan.

Jennifer Hailey, suddenly yanked to a halt, turned and gave him a quizzical look. "What…?"

Teal'c, noting young O'Neill's intense scrutiny, moved swiftly to join the pair directing his attention to the young officer hovering protectively at Jon's side.

"Lieutenant Hailey, I fear Daniel Jackson is overcome, perhaps you would be good enough to drive both he and Mrs. O'Connor back to O'Neill's." Teal'c commanded softly, his expression grave. "Jon O'Neill and I shall be along directly."

Jon silently released Jennifer's hand and without a backward glance joined the big warrior beside the general's truck. It was time to don the mantle of war.

Effectively dismissed, Hailey reluctantly complied. "Understood, sir." Squaring her slender shoulders, she marched over to the distraught archeologist and elderly lady, ushering the pair into an awaiting car.

Once the vehicles sped off, Teal'c and Jon climbed into the big green Ford and left the cemetery.

Jon ran a hand through his damp hair. His rough dismissal of Hailey tugged at his conscience, but it wouldn't do either of them any good to get too attached. Ignoring the twinge of remorse, he shifted restlessly in his seat. "So then, T, about that sedan, exactly who…?"

"Special Agent Malcolm Barrett." Teal'c answered succinctly.

"Barrett, eh." Whistling, Jon closed his eyes and shook his head. "Peachy, now not only will we have to dodge our own people, but the NID as well."

Jon's very subsistence relied on deception. During the almost two years since his unexpected 'birth' he'd braced himself for the day when the secret of his true identity might be exposed. The events of the past several days were a herald to that discovery. Yet strangely, he was more concerned with Jack's ordeal. Keeping Jack safe now became his primary mission. He was prepared to gamble everything, his life, his identity, even his soul if that is what it took to find the scum-sucking bastards who'd gone after the O'Neill boys. And, since Jack was a master in the shadowy world of covert ops, it followed that his duplicate would be equally as talented and just as deadly.

His existence now had a singular focus - vengeance.

"It's time we made a detour and stopped off at my apartment, Teal'c." Jon added, his light tone belying the gravity of the situation. "There are a few _**necessities** _I'm gonna need."

"That may not be wise…" Teal'c began.

"I'd hardly label the enterprise we are embarking on as wise, Teal'c." Jon replied flatly.

Arching a brow, Teal'c inclined his head thoughtfully and turned the truck toward young O'Neill's abode.

The Air Force, in keeping with Jon's role as an emancipated minor, had set him up in a cozy one bedroom in a quiet part of town. His cover as a military orphan afforded him both a tidy sum in the bank and a weekly government stipend.

They arrived to find the immediate area deserted.

Teal'c moved ahead of Jon and opened the door. "Initially, O'Neill assigned a security team to monitor the perimeter, but dismissed them once you were safely in protective custody."

At first glance, the Spartan apartment appeared neat and undisturbed. Jon ran a thoughtful hand over his desk, sensing someone had searched the place. "Check it out Teal'c, the place is a bit too clean."

Employing his keen eyesight, the seasoned warrior spied a scrap of paper in the semi-full trash receptacle, a crumpled cigarette wrapper. O'Neill did not smoke. Using a zip-lock bag from the kitchen, Teal'c pocketed the wrapper for later examination.

While Teal'c continued a security sweep of the rooms, Jon changed into more comfortable attire, soft jeans, Nike's, a thick sweater and buttery leather bomber jacket.

Climbing up on a stool, he eased his slender frame onto the top shelf of his walk-in closet. The area was invisible from below. Using his thumbs, Jon pressed lightly on a small portion of the wall above. Paint and plaster rained down on his upturned face as a hidden opening was revealed.

Reaching inside, he extracted a leather case about the size of a laptop and handed it down to Teal'c. A canvas wrapped object, approximately the span of a fishing pole followed.

Jumping lightly to the floor, Jon took the case from the quiet Jaffa and unzipped it. Inside was an assortment of ammunition, a handgun and a six-inch hunting knife. A leather leg sheath was nestled beside the deadly dagger. Jon slid the razor sharp blade into its protective holster and strapped it securely to his right calf. Loading the pistol expertly, he tucked the gun into his waistband.

Catching Teal'c's placid expression, Jon pocketed several extra clips with a feral smile. "There was always the possibility of a security leak, besides you know how naked I feel without proper coverage."

Nodding his head toward the wrapped length Teal'c held, he instructed, "Strip her down T; it's time for further revelations."

Teal'c bowed slightly in salute and tore the covering off a sniper rifle complete with scope, fully assembled and ready for action. "You remain as cautious as ever O'Neill."

Patting Teal'c on the back, Jon smirked. "Old habits, T, old habits."

Closing the small case, he hefted it easily and held out a hand to indicate that the Jaffa should precede him. "Age before beauty, Teal'c."

Raising his brows, Teal'c gathered his dignity and moved into the hallway. "Indeed."

Jon pondered the wisdom of going to Jack's house. Sassy O'Connor's intense perusal at the cemetery made him uneasy. "Ya know T, it's hard enough lying to the others, but Sassy…"

"Daniel Jackson has no doubt informed Mrs. O'Connor that you are O'Neill's kin. She is blessed with a most loving disposition and will wish to offer you comfort." Teal'c answered confidently.

"Yep, that's the point Teal'c." Jon muttered. "Slipping away unnoticed just got more complicated."

"I often seek solitude when my heart is heavy. I believe 'slipping away' will cause less interest than you fear, Jon O'Neill." Blinking in understanding, Teal'c tilted his head. "However, I concur. It will be more advantageous to forego the wake."

"They'll be hell to pay when the others catch up to us." Jon muttered uncomfortably.

Teal'c pursed his lips in agreement. "It is the repercussions once this matter is resolved, which concerns me most."

"Ah, what a tangled web we weave!" Jon's quipped grimly.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he rubbed the back of his neck, drawing in a deep breath. "Daniel is gonna kill me."

"Daniel Jackson will be angry, yes. However, I believe he will understand, Jon O'Neill." Teal'c replied sagely. "It is Colonel Carter's wrath which gives me pause."

Leaning his head back against the car seat, Jon pictured Sam's response. Wrath was an understatement. "Crap." He sighed jadedly. "Hell hath no fury…"

"Indeed." Teal'c concurred.

Sam Carter eyed the young man beside her in the back seat of the sedan. "So, Ned, is it?"

Ned Drew smiled shyly. The colonel was a very beautiful woman. "Yes ma'am."

Sam was all business. "What do you have to tell me?"

"I think it is probably easier to show you, Colonel." Ned replied.

Pulling a case from the floor, he opened it to reveal a laptop computer and proceeded to boot it up. "Back on the farm we had this old dilapidated shed. I loved to spend lazy hours lying in there just dreaming in the hay."

Ignoring her incredulous stare, he continued, "Well one summer this big ugly spider made herself an enormous web in one corner and set up house. The web looked beautiful at first, light beamed through an old knothole and that web shimmered like gossamer. I was intrigued."

Long years of Daniel's lengthy explanations had taught Sam to listen patiently; rushing someone usually resulted in missing some facet of information that would later prove to be vital.

The main screen popped up and Ned inserted a mini cruzer into the USB port. "I learned a great deal about spiders that summer. This one was a busy little thing, she would trap her prey in that deceptively handsome and oh, so intricate web of hers. And then, she'd play with them as they struggled, sometimes for several days; until finally, the hairy little devil ate them alive. I learned to respect and despise spiders, Colonel Carter."

A list of files appeared on the laptop's screen. Choosing one, Ned opened it and shifted the computer closer to the silent woman. "Did you know many species of arachnoids often eat their own young?"

Brows raised in anticipation, Sam shot the young computer geek a look. "I take it you are trying to prepare me for something."

Shifting her gaze to the information displayed on the screen, Sam quickly read it through. Ignoring the sway of the vehicle as Barrett maneuvered through traffic, she pulled the portable computer onto her lap and selected file after file. Each revelation caused bile to rise to the back of her throat. Jon was in far more danger than any one of them had guessed.

Malcolm Barrett cast repeated glances into the rearview mirror. Ned's simile was more than apt; in point of fact, it was perversely poetic.

He'd been keeping track of the vehicle their 'spider,' Wellington, a.k.a. the Marquis, was driving for the better part of an hour; a task which proved to be easy enough.

The difficulty lay in preventing Wellington from seeing the sedan trailing him. That took skill. A skill the special agent possessed. Once Ned handed the files over to Sam Carter, she'd been silently absorbed in their scrutiny.

What was going on in that lovely and brilliant brain of hers? Malcolm wondered if she'd thank him or damn him for his part in uncovering the person responsible for O'Neill's death.

The decrepit truck pulled into a large shopping mall. Wellington and his sidekick exited, languidly making their way inside.

Barrett slammed the sedan to a halt. Forward momentum jolted Sam from her intense perusal. She looked up, her troubled eyes meeting those of the deceptively unconcerned special agent in the rearview mirror. "I'm unarmed Malcolm."

"I hadn't figured on the bastard stopping off, Sam." Malcolm told her pointedly. "You stay here with Drew and keep an eye out. It's a sure bet our mark will recognize you. I'll head inside the mall and see if I can pick up his trail."

If even one tenth of the information contained in the files she'd just read were accurate, Wellington was directly to blame for Jack O'Neill's death.

Rage coursed through her veins like molten lava. "Negative." Sam snapped. "I'm not going to just sit here on my hands while…"

Barrett read the hate and blood lust in her white-hot gaze. His tone was designed to rein in the warrior woman reflected in the mirror.

"Sam, Ned is not a field agent. I need you to stay here and keep an eye peeled just in case those two backtrack." Malcolm commanded flatly.

He noted the return of self-control in her sky blue eyes and softened his delivery. "If you see anything, use the cell phone and I'll come running."

With that, Barrett was out of the car moving swiftly after his prey.

Breathing hard, Sam shifted her gaze to the young man sitting rigidly beside her. "Are you armed, Ned?"

Ned Drew might be a computer geek of the first order, but once upon a time he'd been known to pick a crow off the fence at fifty yards. Offering her a thin smile, he pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster. "My Daddy was in Viet Nam ma'am. I don't think he ever really was what one might call 'civilized.'"

Sam's nostrils flared, her eyes gleamed with recognition. This farm boy was more, much more, than he seemed. She couldn't help thinking that the general would've liked this kid. Yep, he'd have liked him a lot. "Excellent."

Barrett searched the crowd. Spinning slowly in a circle, he scanned the upper level of the mall. A red speck caught his attention – Wellington's bandanna. Taking the stairs two at a time, he moved determinedly upward and spied the back of a set of muddy coveralls entering a pub.

While his boss used the men's room, Charles Duff ordered them each a scotch whiskey.

Taking the drinks to a table in the back, he eased out of his coveralls and took a long drink. Damn that graveyard had been cold.

The liquor burned its way down his throat warming him from the inside as his boss exited the restroom.

Wellington had discarded his muddy attire leaving it in the trash and washed up. Sliding smoothly into the chair opposite Duff, he made short work of his own glass of booze. "Ah, smooth."

Tossing back the final dregs in his own glass, Charles nodded. "Nothing like a bit of the scotch, shall I get us another?"

"I'm surprised Charles, we have work to do." Wellington cast his gaze nonchalantly over the pub's occupants. "It would appear we remain undetected."

Rising, he led the other man to the door and took a careful look beyond. Faces in the crowd remained unfamiliar. "Come my dear fellow, our beloved Clare is waiting."

The two left the large building by another entrance and made their way to a dark coupe.

"What if the O'Neill brat stands her up?" Charles whispered hoarsely.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Wellington considered the possibility. "Then, we amend the plan as we've discussed."

Licking his lips, Charles relished the thought. "Umm, yes alternate strategy can be so very entertaining."

"Poor little Clare." Damien hissed with satisfaction, guiding the car slowly out of the parking lot. "She is such a delicate rose."

Malcolm trailed behind them quietly. Snapping his cell phone open, he hit the speed dial. "Ned? Hustle over to the south entrance, they're getting away!"

The mouth of the rustic back road she planned to take loomed ahead as Kris Martin sped along the two-lane highway. Checking her gas gauge, she pulled into the last service station before her turn. The serpentine route she'd used to make her way to the clandestine rendezvous with Brightman had eaten up most of the motorcycle's gas.

Feigning disinterest, she eyed several other patrons performing similar tasks and filled the small tank.

Other than a scruffy looking fellow biker straddling a big black Harley, Kris was ignored.

The biker smiled suggestively and winked. Kris capped the gas tank and hurried inside hoping he would lose interest. Grabbing a bottle of water, she stood in line directly behind a burly man. At the head of the line, a woman in a business suit argued with the cashier over her purchases. Rolling her eyes, Kris picked up a newspaper and glanced over the headlines tapping her foot impatiently.

The Harley roared off and the watcher pulled his Jeep directly behind the red motorcycle. Jumping out hurriedly, he made sure Captain Martin remained inside the building and ran a hand over the back of her cycle. Attaching a small device under the fender, he returned to his vehicle and drove it behind the station to wait.

Tucking the newsprint under one arm, Kris exited the building casting sidelong looks around. The biker was gone. No one else gave her a second glance. Pulling her helmet on, she revved the red cycle up. Taking one more cautious look around, she roared back out onto the highway heading back to her patient.

Daniel paced impatiently. He'd been waiting, along with Sassy and Jennifer Hailey, at Jack's place for over forty minutes.

Sassy readily accepted Daniel's explanation as to the identity of the young Jon O'Neill. In fact, she was anxious to get acquainted with Jack's only living relative. Both she and Hailey had taken an instant shine to one another. The two women sat side by side fondly discussing Jack's many quirks. Hailey had done her part to distract the older woman from her grief, regaling her with a colorful description of Jon's baking prowess.

As the minutes ticked by, Daniel was becoming more and more convinced that the others weren't planning on joining them anytime soon. Something was very wrong. If he were honest with himself, Daniel had suspected all along that Jon would deviate from the plan they'd all agreed to. It was his nature.

Excusing himself, the anxious archeologist strode out onto the deck and dialed Sam's cell phone. A terse Sam Carter answered. "Carter."

"Sam, it's Daniel." He knew that tone of voice; Sam was in full military mode. "Where are you?"

"What's wrong Daniel, as I told Teal'c I'm with Special Agent Barrett…?" Alarm bells began to ring in Sam's head. "Daniel, please tell me that Jon and Teal'c are there with you."

"Ah, no." Daniel's voice was deceptively unconcerned. "I get the feeling we've been duped."

Captain Brightman calmly returned to the SGC to resume her duties. However, as she entered her office, she spied a pair of boots propped up on her desk. Leaning back in her chair, Major Kearney eyed the new doctor with suspicion. Dropping his feet to the floor, he stood up and moved forward to tower over her. "Shut the door, doctor."

Gulping, Brightman complied arranging her features in what she hoped were an innocent expression. "What can I do for you, Major Kearney?"

Staring into her blank face for several intimidating minutes, Kearney got right to the point. "Well for starters Captain Brightman, you can explain why you left your post in the middle of a shift."

"I had an errand to run." Easing around his muscular bulk, she seated herself in her chair and returned his stare.

Leaning in as she passed him, the vigilant security officer sniffed, detecting the scent of mint. And, if he was not mistaken, underlying hints of an all too familiar aroma - fine Irish. Kearney's lips thinned. "An errand?" He echoed coldly. "I see."

Taking the seat opposite hers, he leaned back contemplating the clearly uncomfortable physician's body language. "I happened to be scanning the security video of the exits earlier; your rather hasty departure disturbed me. It seemed to be a tad early in the day to leave your post and the pockets of your raincoat seemed incredibly** _bulky_**." Pausing for effect, he ran perceptive eyes over her visibly damp uniform.

"I was wondering just where that raincoat is?" Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on her desk, his blue eyes boring into hers.

Brightman's smooth cheeks tinged pink. Her breathing increased.

Kearney rose to hover over her smaller frame. "Captain, we buried our commander today. I greatly admired General O'Neill. His death has been a quite a shock and I am feeling surly. I should warn you, I don't do surly well."

Noting her look of panic, he lowered his voice to a snarl. "Now, suppose you tell me what the hell you've been up to."

Clare ducked under the small shelter beneath the trees and spread a blanket over the picnic bench. Setting a basket filled with take-out from Wong's Chinese on top, she sat down gingerly.

Last night's session with her dear 'daddy' had left her weary and bruised. Not one inch of her back had been spared this time and her wrists, underneath her blue jacket, were chafed from the leather straps he'd used to tie her down. No matter how many times she suffered at his hands, Clare still fought. It was her nature to resist.

For the millionth time she cursed the day thirteen years ago when Wellington sauntered into the orphanage in Berlin and chose her to be his 'own dear little girl.' Dear little whipping boy was more like it. She was convinced Father Braun had known very well just what kind of hell he'd sold the tiny five year old into, but the coffers were empty after all. Clare damned the aging cleric to the fires of hell and beyond.

Once upon a time, she'd been a happy child filled with light. Damien's perversions had long ago destroyed that child. Now all that remained was a beautiful shell harboring a lost soul walking the very edges of sanity.

It had been years since Clare felt any emotions save hatred and fear. For over a decade she'd wandered through the darkness of Damien Wellington's world, her delicate heart wrapped securely inside a frozen shroud, until yesterday when Jon O'Neill's grief somehow penetrated that frigid pall.

What was it about the teen that touched her so? He wasn't her first casualty. No, he was just another victim.

Maybe it was those remarkably mischievous brown eyes of his. The ancient wisdom that glimmered in their sable depths was strangely incongruous amidst his unlined and boyish features. Looking into those sage pools she'd sensed that he too knew a level of self-preservation and carefully hidden despair similar to her own.

From the first, Clare was attracted to him like a moth to flame. Knowing all the while the flame would soon be snuffed out.

Stifling a sob, Clare pulled her thin jacket closer fighting the chill in the damp air.

Whatever the attraction, she'd come here to the park much earlier than planned, hoping to find a way to warn him before Wellington and his thugs followed.

Sam thrust her cell phone into her pocket. 'Damn that stubborn Irishman and his overdeveloped sense of independence and intrigue!' He'd done it again! Patting the place where Jack's discarded and frayed SGC patch rested over her heart, Sam pondered her next move.

'Think, Carter, think! You've been O'Neill's, second in command for over eight years now; surely you should have an inkling of how that deceptively obtuse mind of his works.' Resting her hand over the hidden patch once more, she wistfully remembered Jack's many attempts to shield his intellect. 'Okay, so Jon's year away must have changed him somewhat, but he is still basically the same man you've known and secretly loved. His reactions and moves should be analogous.'

And yet, Sam wasn't so sure. Jack had always been an enigma.

Following a brief separation at the shopping mall, Barrett resumed his position in the driver's seat. Currently they were still tracking the infamous Marquis's vehicle through heavy traffic.

Malcolm watched the visibly anxious woman in his back seat by way of the handy rearview mirror. He could almost see the gears in her brain working. "What's up Sam?" He asked pointedly.

Looking up, Sam returned his stare. "Evidently our young O'Neill is as stubbornly independent as his uncle. Both Jon and Teal'c are MIA."

Ned, swaying in the backseat alongside the colonel, caught on quickly. "You think the kid and this officer Teal'c are off chasing the perps on their own?"

"Chasing? Well, that is one way of putting it." Sam muttered sarcastically, arching her brow. It was a sure bet that the two 'warrior brothers' were planning on doing much more than merely engaging in a pursuit.

Barrett wrinkled his brow in consternation. Why would the seasoned Jaffa throw in with a kid? "Let me get this straight. You think the…err…Teal'c…is leading the general's nephew into some kind of…"

Sam hung her head in frustration. "Now that the general is…gone, Teal'c most likely sees himself as Jon's protector. And as such, he'll stick to the kid's side like glue."

"How in God's name would anyone think that leading that kid into a possible trap constitutes protection?" Malcolm barked with amazement. He knew the Jaffa's customs often countered those of earth, but couldn't fathom how endangering a child fit into this whole scenario. Obviously, there was more to this puzzle.

Sam raised her head. Catching the special agent's incredulous stare in the mirror once more, she ran her hand over her aching neck. "I doubt Teal'c is leading."

Malcolm returned her stare. He understood the veiled message in her cobalt eyes. Reading through Jon O'Neill's dossier he'd found it in perfect order - too perfect, he realized.

Sam watched the emotions flicker in Malcolm's reflection noting the dawn of understanding blaze in his eyes. Cocking her head to one side, she nodded.

Barrett, his suspicions confirmed, returned his full concentration to following the bastard in the coupe. Sticking close to their prey remained imperative.

The stakes in this complex game had doubled.

Kris kicked off the red motorcycle, grabbed the overcoat from the saddlebag and hurried inside the clinic.

Jeff, leaning over the fever wracked O'Neill, heard her pound up the steps and slam through the door. Muttering a quick prayer of thanks, he turned to meet her questing gaze. "His fever has climbed steadily over the past hour, did you get the medication?"

Tossing the coat to the worried physician, Kris rushed to Jack's side. Placing her cool palm on his hot brow, she bit her lip. He was burning up! "How high…"

"106." Jeff bit off brusquely. Pulling intravenous bags from the coat pockets, he immediately checked both the contents and dosage. Finding them satisfactory, Jeff inserted tubing into the port provided on the first of the bags. Attaching a needle, he swabbed a similar port on the saline solution already running into his patient's left forearm. "I moved him to a cooling blanket right after you left, but he's febrile as hell."

Shifting the saline bag to a lower position, he allowed the antibiotics to rapidly pump into O'Neill's intravenous site. "I've given him several doses of Acetaminophen and pushed fluids…now we wait for the antibiotics to kick in."

Shifting his stance, Jeff looked his friend and co-conspirator over. "Did you run into any trouble?"

Gently adjusting Jack's thin coverings, Kris answered absently. "I thought I was being pursued briefly by a gray Jeep, but lost him in the traffic. Still, just in case I took the long way around."

Shaking her head, Kris's shoulders slumped with fatigue. "Crap, I was hoping debridement of the wound would make more of a difference."

"Actually, I repeated the procedure not twenty minutes ago and drained a significant amount of pus." Jeff told her tiredly.

"I also took a culture. It's too early to be sure, but it appears my hunch was correct. Thanks to your daring and tenacity we now have the right medication to fight this kind of virulent organism." Jeff wrapped an arm around Kris resting his head against hers. "Come on; let's get a quick bite of something to eat."

Noting the dedicated nurse's hesitation, the equally committed physician ran a loving hand over the little sheltie still nestled beside the general's bed. "I've got the intercom on and Mischief is firmly entrenched at the general's side. If he wakes up, she'll alert us, won't you girl?"

Mischief's ears perked up. Raising her head, the little dog's expressive mouth seemed to smile at the concerned pair.

"You love him already don't you, Mischief?" Kris murmured. Hunching over, she stroked the mini-collie gratefully. "Well, he is easy to love."

Hearing Kris's hushed words, Jeff's heart shifted. Just as he'd suspected, the general was more than just her commanding officer. Taking her hand, he cast a final look at the intravenous fluids and then gently pulled Kris from the room.

Mischief scooted up onto the bed and snuggled in closer to her charge. She liked this man's scent and instinctively understood he needed her protection. Nuzzling his hand, she finagled her moist nose into his limp palm and sighed.

Jack burned. Crap! Where the hell was he? He was trapped in the murky shadows of some kind of fiery torment. The last time he'd felt this miserable had been…when had it been exactly? His skin was on fire! Everything hurt.

Something cold and wet pushed its way into his sizzling palm. Oh God, that felt so good. Overcome, Jack surrendered to the blackness once more.

The watcher considered his options as the blip on his tracking display stopped moving southwest and remained stationary.

Easing his Jeep off the road, he stashed it inside a stand of thick brush. He was about a mile from the blip's position.

Pulling a beat-up cap from the back, he shrugged out of his coat, consulted his compass and continued furtively on foot.

Teal'c slipped another cartridge into the chamber of the sniper rifle and eased into a prone position. Placing the scope to his right eye, he watched as young O'Neill approached Clare Wellington.

Falling into their usual unspoken form of communication they'd separated just minutes before the young female's arrival. The Jaffa found an ideal place in which to conceal himself in a small dense copse of trees on the school's grounds. Here, he had a clear view of the park and its surrounding terrain.

Jon parked the Ford out of sight and checked his hidden arsenal. Slipping on the familiar mantle of covert intrigue, he hunkered down behind a conveniently placed picket fence and waited for his 'date.' She was over forty minutes early.

Allowing her to get comfortable, O'Neill scanned the perimeter. Oddly, it was clear. Signaling Teal'c, he slowly made his way up the block giving the impression he'd come on foot.

Clare huddled on the bench, her attention fixed on her clenched hands. Jon wondered sardonically if her defensive posture was a result of the damp air or the frozen wasteland of her soul.

Clare sensed his silent approach, raised her chin and jumped up to intercept him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she hugged him close and sobbed. "I'm so very sorry."

Startled by her vehemence, Jon returned her trembling embrace. "I'll miss him…"

Pushing away awkwardly, Clare scanned his face. "Oh, I…yes…I am sorry about your uncle too."

Jon's eyebrows met his hairline. "Okay, why do I get the feeling we are not talking about my uncle's death?"

Gulping audibly, the tremulous blond grasped the tall youth's hands tightly. "I'm not a high school girl, Jon. I was sent to lure you into a trap and if we don't act very quickly, we are both going to be sharing the general's fate."

Pulling his hands away, Jon stepped back. Avoiding her intense gaze, he looked around. "What kind of sick game you are playing?"

Clare latched onto him once more. Using her adrenalin enhanced strength she grabbed his chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. "This is no game. Listen up Jon; I am risking a hell of a lot more than my life here..."

"Risking your life?" Jon snorted. Anger bubbled up inside him. His expressive brown eyes became diamond hard slits of undisguised rage. Capturing her wrists, he snarled, "What about my Uncle Jack's life? I suppose he was expendable!"

His ironclad grip on her tender wrists caused Clare to bite her lip and gasp with pain.

Her sudden distress penetrated his barely controlled fury. Releasing his grip, Jon exposed her right wrist; her delicate skin was abraded and raw. "What the hell…?"

Clare ignored his reaction and rushed on. "I know I've no right to demand this, but if we are going to escape you'll have to trust me."

Jon contemplated her abused flesh. Clearly, her role was more than that of a duplicitous co-conspirator in this dark game of intrigue.

"Please Jon; I don't want to lose you." Clare whispered brokenly clutching his arm. Her tone drew his searching gaze back to her own. "I'm not sure how I know this, but I know you are the only one who can help me."

Jon knew that look. It was the same look a certain Jaffa had worn some eight years before. Nodding slowly, he employed a hand gesture to alert the man who'd also once been his enemy and was now his closest ally.

Teal'c loped out of the brush, startling the small woman still hanging on to Jon. Ignoring her, he scowled. "What has transpired?"

"According to the 'lady' here, I've been set up." Jon answered lightly, his mask of unconcern firmly back in place.

"Indeed." Inclining his head, Teal'c cradled the rifle calmly. "Then perhaps we should adjourn to a more congenial location and discuss the matter."

Tossing Teal'c the keys to the truck, Jon agreed. "Sounds good, Teal'c the truck's around the corner."

Teal'c moved off quickly to secure the vehicle.

Sniffing the contents of the picnic basket, Jon smirked. "Ah Chinese, I'm famished." Scooping up the basket and blanket, he wrapped his arm around Clare's shoulders and led her to the waiting conveyance.

Pushing the treacherous woman gently into the back seat of the big green Ford, Jon settled in beside her. Snagging an egg roll, he took a massive bite, chewing contently. "So, now then Clare…exactly who is it we are running from and why?"

Clare was impressed. Evidently, Jon O'Neill's ancient eyes hadn't lied.

TBC…in chapter eight...**_Untamed Reflection_**.


	8. Untamed Reflection

23

**Untamed reflection**.

_Chapter Eight of the Candlestick Chronicles._

The watcher checked his compass yet again. Wiping a trickle of sweat from his temple, he continued his clandestine journey over the uneven and forested terrain. By his estimation the feisty biker woman's last position should be dead ahead, just beyond the dense pines.

He wasn't sure just what it was he expected to find, but something of a definitely questionable nature was going on.

Catching sight of the over-laden Dr. Brightman leaving the SGC, her expression flushed with guilt, he'd known he had to follow. And, when she'd met up with the motorcycle rider in that seedy bar, his cynical nature kicked into overdrive.

Abandoning the doctor for the woman in possession of the suspicious coat, he'd followed her serpentine route knowing instinctively that the garment contained some form of contraband. Moreover, the cycle rider's best efforts to elude him added credence to his pursuit. He hadn't become the man he was today without heeding his gut.

Moving cautiously through the last majestic pines, he could see a Chevy van and the elusive red motorcycle parked behind a fairly large building constructed of logs. Overcast skies created a false dusk. Using the shadows, he slinked along the side wall of the structure, cocked his head and listened for the sound of voices. A man's deep bass mingled with a woman's husky murmur and reverberated through the wood toward the rear. Ducking beneath the high windows, he inched his way to the front of the dwelling.

A rough-hewn placard announced the building's purpose. The watcher hesitated. Evidently this was some kind of clinic. Maybe, the encounter between the biker and the physician had been more innocent than he first suspected. Still, the woman's stealthy behavior demanded investigation.

Moving softly onto the porch, he eased the screen door open and crept inside.

Mischief, dosing next to the ailing O'Neill, raised her head, her ears twitched. Growling low in her throat, hackles raised, teeth barred, she prepared to defend the helpless man bedside her.

Jeff heard the protective sounds of his trusty little companion over the intercom. Rising swiftly on silent feet, he took up the shotgun leaning against the wall.

Kris snatched Jeff's old forty-five from the table and prepared to back him up.

The pair fell into a familiar form of military dance.

Mischief's growls increased in volume, as Jeff snaked his way along the hall with Kris covering his six.

The watcher stood just inside the dimly lit room. A small dog guarded the covered form lying motionless on a narrow bed. The prone figure's face, surrounded by monitors and IV poles, was lost in shadow. Dismissing any real threat from the tiny canine, he pocketed his weapon, reached a hand out for the mini-collie to sniff and continued steadily toward the bed.

The tall human's unfamiliar scent enraged the little sheltie. Contracting her muscular haunches, the diminutive pup launched her attack. Firmly clamping her jaws around the offensive intruder's outstretched hand, she held onto the unknown assailant with fiery tenacity.

The small animal's momentum knocked the watcher to the ground, where he landed flat on his back. Using his free hand, he desperately attempted to dislodge the vicious creature with limited success.

Jeff, followed by Kris, entered the room and took in the sight of the normally docile dog's ferocious defense of their patient.

Exchanging a proud smirk with a somber Kris, Jeff placed the barrel of the shotgun against the writhing man's temple. "Off, Mischief!"

The sound of her master's voice penetrated Mischief's haze of defending rage. Releasing her foe, she backed away and sat down.

The downed watcher cradled his savaged hand. Panting with effort, he laid still, his face contorted with pain.

Skirting the stranger warily, Kris rushed to Jack's side. Finding him undisturbed, she pulled the thin sheet over his face, clinging to a vague hope of concealing his identity.

Jeff scanned their uninvited guest without recognition. "Okay, then. Just who the hell are you, and why are you sneaking around inside my clinic?"

Fixing a jaundiced eye on the gun barrel still resting against his temple, the watcher refused to respond.

"Maybe, I should let my dog work you over some more." Jeff snapped. Mischief growled obligingly, her body once more poised to spring.

Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the man at his feet, Jeff smirked. Placing one foot firmly against the stranger's chest, he directed Kris. "Search him."

Kris slipped her gun into the rear waistband of her jeans and knelt down. Despite shaking hands, she deftly turned out the man's pockets, tossing the contents onto the floor. A military issue handgun, car keys and leather wallet were quickly followed by a compass and cell phone. Resisting the urge to shoot the bastard, she removed the gun's ammo clip. "Personally, I think we should let Mischief finish him."

Biting her lip, she flipped open the silent man's wallet. Angling his identification beneath a shaft of light from the hallway, Kris inhaled deeply. 'Crap!' Rising, she moved to Jeff's side affording him a clear view of the wallet's contents.

Riding high on adrenalin, the pumped up physician backed up a pace and motioned with the rifle. "Right then, suppose you get up nice and slow."

The watcher got slowly to his feet, his eyes darting cautiously between the man with the gun and the enraged sheltie.

Kris removed her forty-five from her jeans training it expertly on the interloper. Pressing the rifle barrel against the intruder's spine, Jeff herded him into an adjacent room.

Mischief returned to her post. Nipping the edge of the sheet, she pulled it away from the general's face and licked his jaw affectionately. Satisfied that he was safe, she settled once more against his side.

&&&

Perspiration trickled uncomfortably down Elizabeth Brightman's spine. Seated in the brig on a lumpy metal cot, heart banging madly in her chest, she pondered her predicament. 'Face it Elizabeth, there is no safe solution to this problem. You've no way of knowing just which side Kearney is really on, for all you know **he** is the mole and besides, you gave your word. Either way, you lose.'

Major Kearney was a formidable foe.

Incensed over the loss of their commander, Kearney had been relentless. Grilling the staid physician proved fruitless, compounding his anger. "Look Captain Brightman, we know the general's driver was a plant. I am convinced he had an accomplice here inside the SGC." Pacing, he tried to control his rising fury. "I'd like to think you are innocent. But…"

"I assure you Major; I had nothing to do with what happened to General O'Neill," Brightman repeated truthfully. "As I've said, all I'm guilty of is skirting protocol to aid a humanitarian effort…and if we are technical about it, borrowing government supplies."

Her story sounded credible and yet, he was convinced she was holding something back. Kearney's face turned another shade of red; the pulse in his temple throbbed. Clenching his fists, he nodded. "Borrowing sounds so very acceptable doesn't it?" He snorted acerbically.

"The truth is that you, dear doctor, are guilty of theft and perhaps, a great deal more." Sighing, he yanked open the office door. Two members of his security contingent stood at attention just beyond the portal. "Airmen, escort Captain Brightman to the brig."

Kearney lowered his voice to a mocking whisper. "Think of your confinement as an opportunity for self-reflection, Captain. I suggest you use the time to consider you rather limited options."

&&&

Inside the brig, Airman Ben Jefferson stood guard outside the captain's cell. His position here amongst the loyal members of the SGC was tenuous at best. Sooner or later, the disgustingly genuine and pugnacious Kearney would put the pieces together and his ass would be fried.

Earlier, stationed just beyond the doctor's office door, it had been all too easy to overhear a good deal of Major Kearney's interrogation of Captain Brightman. Jefferson's agile and twisted mind pondered the implications of said interrogation. Regrettably, his suppositions would have to wait until he was relieved of duty, leaving his post would expose him prematurely.

&&&

Jon O'Neill rested his head in Clare's lap and stretched out his long legs. Clare, seated on a blanket spread out under the trees, stroked his hair trying to quell her apprehension. "I'm not convinced this is the best course of action, Jon."

Gazing up into her angelic face, Jon reached up to tuck one of her shimmering gold curls behind her ear. He wondered if another fallen angel, Lucifer, would look as remarkably exquisite.

Her revealing litany of complicity hadn't shocked him. She wasn't the first innocent to be used and corrupted into a misshapen implement of iniquity. Still, he'd been surprised at the feelings her tragic history evoked in him. He'd thought he'd moved past such heartfelt sentiment long ago. The torn flesh of her small and birdlike wrists fed the magma churning under the icy surface of control he projected.

A Bible passage came to mind. Shifting his head, Jon nestled deeper into her warmth. "Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord." He whispered in a sepulchral tone.

Clare stared into his molten eyes, reading the deadly intent there. For the first time, she feared him.

The young Tau'ri woman's convoluted explanation rekindled Teal'c's contempt for manipulative demigods. Wellington was in essence Clare's own personal system lord. He knew her pain. The marks upon her body added to his understanding. She too had seen the hope of liberation hidden within the depths of O'Neill's soul.

Many would dismiss Jon O'Neill's plan as futile, unaware of the 'lad's' canny strength. Their strategy was bold, but his warrior brother was a redoubtable fortress and inestimable adversary. They would prevail.

Adjusting his position, Teal'c sighted the area using the sniper rifle's scope. Satisfied that the perimeter remained clear, he flipped open his cell phone.

&&&

Jon's cell chirped. Expecting to hear Teal's deep baritone, he answered on the first ring. "Talk to me."

"Where the hell are you, Jon?" Daniel Jackson's angry voice demanded.

"Ah, Daniel I'm a bit busy at the moment." Jon replied coolly. "How's about I call you back?"

"Hold it!" Daniel began, "Jon, Sam just called…you are in way over your head."

"Danny this is not my first dip into the icy river of intrigue." Jon informed him shortly.

"Listen to me Jon, there's a lot you don't know…give me your position, we can help…" Daniel begged.

"Negative!" Jon barked. "And Daniel? Stop tying up my phone. O'Neill out." Watching the play of emotions over Clare's face, Jon severed the connection and laid the phone on his chest. "Now where were we?"

&&&

Teal'c's finger was poised over the speed dial when it rang. Noting the number displayed, he opened the connection. Before he could speak, Daniel Jackson's irate voice demanded his attention.

"Teal'c? Don't you dare hang up!" Still smarting over Jon's dismissal, Daniel was not about to tolerate another. "What the hell are you and Jon up to?"

&&&

Daniel starred at the phone for a long minute resisting the urge to throw it forcefully against the wall. Jack, no matter what his incarnation, could enrage a saint! And in his present state, their mutual friend, Jack's staunchest supporter, was no better.

Contacting Teal'c, he'd tried to reason with the big Jaffa.

Teal'c politely informed him that "all would be well" and hung up.

Shaking a fist, Daniel clenched his teeth and recited a mantra designed to relieve his frustration. "O'Neill, you are an intolerable ass…"

Jennifer Hailey picked just that moment to walk into the kitchen.

Following his brief chat with Colonel Carter, Daniel suggested Sassy use Jack's room for a 'cat nap.' Once the elderly lady agreed, he pulled Hailey aside and filled her in. They'd each tried numerous times to raise the errant clone by cell without success. 'I suppose the inconsiderate jackass shut the **_pesky_** thing off!'

Attempts to contact Teal'c proved equally futile.

Hailey rapidly concluded that Daniel had finally made contact. No one else rattled the usually serene archeologist quite as effectively as the O'Neill boys. Arching an inquisitive brow, Jennifer folded her arms and waited patiently.

Daniel repeated his mantra several more times, regaining some semblance of tranquility.

Watching his transparent play of emotions, Jennifer sought to soothe his ire. "They can't help it you know, it's their nature."

Hailey's statement penetrated his annoyance. She was right; still, it rankled. "Jon is too busy to speak to me at present. Apparently I was tying up the phone."

"So then we try Teal'c. If Jon's phone is finally functional…"

Shaking his head, Daniel interrupted her. "I just tried. It's no use. They are both unshakably entrenched in full-blown Jaffa revenge mode."

Jennifer's shoulders slumped in defeat. "We are so screwed!"

&&&

Damien Wellington possessed many unique characteristics, most of them unattractive, but he was no fool. Maneuvering the coupe through heavily congested traffic, he debated strategy with his minion Charles Duff. A dark sedan seemed to appear in his rearview mirror several times, albeit briefly. "So Charles, I fear we are being followed."

Duff pulled down his own sun-visor and peered into the mirror. "I don't see…"

"Are you questioning me Charles?" Damien's voice lacked his usual light tone. He so hated to be contradicted.

Realizing his error, Duff subsided. "What now?"

"We make use of our surroundings." Damien responded calmly. "And adjust our plans, just as we discussed."

A CTA bus parked ahead gave him an idea.

Pulling directly in front of the bus, obscuring them from the sedan's direct line of vision, Damien jumped quickly from the vehicle and boarded the large conveyance. "Hold up a moment my good man; I am waiting for a friend." Slipping the driver a fifty-dollar bill, he slumped into a seat.

The driver pocketed the crisp banknote and nodded. Covering the bases, he radioed dispatch, reporting an 'unforeseen delay.'

Duff quickly slid behind the coupe's wheel and drove on.

The suspicious sedan hung back a few car lengths and then shadowed Duff in the coupe. Damien rose nonchalantly from his seat, patted the driver and exited the bus. "I've changed my mind, carry on."

Pulling his coat lapels up around his face, Wellington crossed the street and faded into the crowd.

&&&

Major Paul Davis sat uneasily in O'Neill's vacant chair pondering the ramifications of events over the last forty-eight hours. With General Hammond currently unavailable and Colonel Carter ostensibly preoccupied with the general's funeral, the Joint Chiefs had placed him in charge of the SGC until a more permanent arrangement could be made.

Over the years Paul's duties exposed him to many of the Air Force's top officers. Jack O'Neill had been one of his personal favorites.

The major admired the crusty O'Neill's tenacity and never say die attitude, not to mention his wacky and irreverent sense of humor. Thus, he wanted desperately to find out what exactly precipitated his untimely demise. He'd enlisted the help of the most well informed member of the SGC staff, O'Neill's aide, Sergeant Walter Davis.

It was no secret that the serious sergeant and his rascal of a commander had an affectionately adversarial relationship. O'Neill hated the mundane responsibilities that Walter Davis embraced and often resorted to 'yanking the little guy's chain' just to 'spice things up a tad.'

O'Neill joked on more than one occasion that the 'Davis boys' were in a word, 'dissimilar.' He seemed to find the idea of the dashing major and the natty little sergeant's possible familial connection vastly amusing. A concept designed to fondly tease the often-humorless technician.

The major, for his part, found Walter's carefully hidden chagrin highly entertaining too. Few in the know would deny that O'Neill relied heavily on the man to keep him on track. And, that Walter was the man to see if you wanted information. In addition, the pint-sized sergeant made no secret of his grief, or his intense desire to ferret out those responsible for his general's death. Hence, the astute major decided to turn Walter loose and allow him to do his own private investigating.

Walter scanned the file one last time confirming his suspicions. Quelling his outrage, he gathered up the folder and headed to General O'Neill's office. He was about to knock on the open door when Major Davis spotted him and motioned him inside.

Walter shut the door firmly, his eyes ablaze behind his thick spectacles. "Sir, I believe I've found our mole," he began without preamble.

Major Davis reviewed Walter's findings with rising alarm. The next logical step was to alert the head of base security. "Good job Sergeant. What's Major Kearney's extension number?"

Walter's expression registered his unease. "The major received a call from Teal'c about thirty minutes ago. He then gathered two units of SF's and headed off to meet him. I'm sorry sir; I thought he informed you…"

Rising heatedly from his chair, the overlooked commander waved further explanation off with an impatient hand. "Save the apology sergeant. Evidently, our Major Kearney borrowed a page from Jack O'Neill's book of independent command decisions. Just find him!"

Walter turned tail and headed out of the office. Sighing, Major Davis picked up the red phone.

&&&

Sam Carter continued to stew. Unable to do more than sit idly in the backseat of the sedan while Malcolm Barrett tailed their suspects, she made use of her cell phone. The news from Daniel only added to her feeling of helplessness.

Barrett sympathized. The dangerous game that the young O'Neill and his Jaffa protector were playing was, at the very least, disturbing. "Personally Samantha, I think both Teal'c and the kid are categorically insane."

"Malcolm, we have no clear idea just what it is those two rogues are doing." Sam's loyal side defended. "It's entirely possible they are on the right track."

"So then, why not make use of every resource?" Malcolm argued.

"You're the one who pointed out the undeniable existence of a security leak." Sam replied shortly. The idea that an SGC insider was responsible for this whole mess sickened her. "I doubt that possibility escaped their notice."

"Okay, so then reason would dictate…" Malcolm began.

Sam Carter snorted. "Oh yeah, right! We just buried the kid's only family. How reasonable would you be in his shoes?"

Ned Drew kept his eyes on the coupe and his opinions carefully to himself. Listening to the exchange between the more seasoned operatives, he came to the conclusion that there was something very unusual about the general's elusive nephew.

Something besides the missing youngster's plight nagged at the self-professed computer geek. "Agent Barrett, sir, might I use your opera glasses for a moment?"

Barrett eyed Ned in the mirror and passed the requested item back. "Care to share, Drew?"

Hesitating, Ned studied their prey via the magnifying lenses. Sure enough, his farm-bred eyes hadn't deceived him. "Currently it would appear that the coupe has only one occupant, sir."

"The hell you say!" Barrett squinted ahead.

Sam Carter relieved Drew of the opera glasses and scanned the vehicle in question. Sure enough, only one head, the driver's, was visible. "Damn it to hell, he's correct!"

"I think we lost one about a mile back…right after we passed that busy intersection." Ned added tentatively.

Sam ran an exasperated hand through her hair. "We've been made…"

"…Literally taken for a ride." Barrett cursed expansively, considering their options.

"Colonel Carter, ma'am…" Ned began thoughtfully. "You mentioned earlier that Jon made an appointment to meet one of the suspects later this afternoon…"

"That's right, the theoretical school girl, Clare Wellington." Catching his train of thought, Sam directed her attention his way.

Running with his muse, Ned continued, "The Marquis's adopted daughter and if our information is accurate, his puppet…"

"Okay, what's going on in that head of yours Ned?" Barrett prodded.

"I don't profess to know Jon O'Neill, but…" Lost in the moment Ned's earnest face glowed with revelation. "If my uncle had just been murdered I'd want to settle the score…as in an eye for an eye. And, I wouldn't want any interference."

"Holy Hannah, he moved the meeting up!" Sam interjected.

"Ma'am you said Dr. Jackson made contact with both Teal'c and Jon O'Neill via cell phone right?" Ned queried, his eyes intent.

Stunned by her own lack of insight, Sam nodded as Ned went on.

"Well then, since we aren't sure of their location and we do not want to alert any bogies, might I suggest correlating their position by way of the GPS chip in their respective phones?"

"Ned you are brilliant!" Sam squeezed his hand and mentally kicked herself. 'Good one colonel, you allowed personal feelings to cloud your judgment. 'Don't be a dolt Samantha; this is no time for self-recrimination!' Dialing the SGC control room, she requested the ever-reliable Sergeant Walter Davis.

Sergeant Davis's familiar monotone greeting made contact with the detached military side of her persona. "Sergeant Davis, this is Colonel Carter…"

&&&

Crawling on his belly, Major Kearney pushed a low hanging branch away from his face. Glancing to his left, the dedicated security officer spotted his second maneuvering into position. Using hand signals, he gestured toward the young couple seated some fifteen yards beyond their hiding place. The pair looked like any other teenagers indulging in a picnic.

Employing binoculars, Kearney checked the perimeter and wondered just where Teal'c was situated. When the Jaffa phoned, dictating curt instructions, he asked few questions and gathered his most reliable security detail. Trust was something the dark skinned alien warrior had earned long ago from the men of the SGC.

Once they'd made the rendezvous, his men scattered finding the best cover possible. Kearney checked his weapon. His mission was clear and yet, he felt off balance. Success depended on the inimitable instinct and savvy of one young man, Jon O'Neill. The major muttered a fervent prayer.

&&&

Charles Duff watched the sedan veer off with complacent glee. Ha! Wellington thought **he** was the genius! 'Tut-tut, Charles, this is another victory you must keep to yourself, up-staging the Marquis isn't healthy; not if you want to live.'

Just to be sure he was truly alone, Duff eased the coupe into a hamburger joint and exited the car. Ordering fries to go, Charles paid for his snack and then, headed out the rear door grinning manically.

The next step was to make sure he didn't disappoint dear little Clare and her new boyfriend.

&&&

Hunched over his computer screen, Walter tapped into the base security system. Contacting the absent major directly, without knowing just what kind of operation he was conducting, wouldn't be prudent. Nope, however, tracking Major Kearney's GPS signal was both silent and efficient.

During his tenure at Stargate Command, Walter had developed an almost symbiotic relationship with the base computer. He easily pinpointed the major's location along with several others, and was about to report to Major Davis when Colonel Carter phoned.

Exchanging a meaningful stare with the temporary base commander hovering expectantly nearby, Walter hastily filled them both in. "Colonel Carter, Major Kearney and a security detail deployed some forty minutes ago just after he received a phone call from Teal'c; it appears that both Teal'c and the major's current positions are within a few hundred yards of one another." Walter paused, eyed his superior and lifted a questioning brow.

Major Davis, understanding his silent query, mouthed the word 'yes.'

Walter continued, "And ma'am, we believe our security leak is a member of the major's unit."

Alarmed, Sam's annoyance increased exponentially. "And exactly where might they be?"

&&&

Clare resisted the urge to squirm and popped another fortune cookie crumb into Jon's mouth. "I don't understand the delay."

Well aware of the time, Jon calmly chewed the sweet. "Relax, this kind of operation rarely runs like clockwork."

Clare snorted. "Some teenager! You should be scared out of your mind! What are you - the reincarnation of John Wayne or something?"

"Or something..." Jon agreed ruefully. "What good does it do us if I freak? Besides, Teal'c has our six."

"Damien never loses, Jon. He's truly gifted. And his buddy Charles…well lets just say, deranged is an understatement." Clare told him brokenly. Despite her newfound trust, she was terrified.

A large black Cadillac pulled up slowly alongside the curb. Recognizing the driver, Clare shivered. "It's Duff. I can't go back to that life, Jon."

"I promise you won't, Clare." Jon vowed, flatly, eyeing the vehicle. He knew what it was to be the victim of a heartless sadist. 'Even if it means killing you in order to save you.'

&&&

Charles Duff's beady eyes roamed the park, directing instructions to his associate. "Remember, we don't want to spook the kid. He's no good to us dead." Kaminski was not his first choice; he tended to make a mess and his cockney accent was annoying.

Blaine Kaminski lovingly fingered an ornate antique stiletto. "Yeah right, so the boss said. What about the girl?"

"Ah yes, dear Clare." Charles made a great show of pondering the question. Of late toying with Clare had lost its charm. "Regrettably she is superfluous."

Blaine ran an eager tongue over his full lower lip, his slate gray eyes gleamed. "Poor poppet."

&&&

Teal'c watched the vehicle park. Two men exited and strolled over to the place where Jon and Clare, feigning unconcern, continued their picnic. Using the magnifying capabilities of the rifle's scope, he searched the car and surrounding area. It would appear that the two had come alone.

Major Kearney, poised for battle should the need arise, took note of the approaching unfriendlys. Jon looked cool enough. Kearney still found it fantastic that the kid was in reality the general's clone. He looked so, well, young!

Clare whispered an introduction to Jon, her hands trembled. She wasn't sure which of the two she hated more, Duff or his cold-blooded sidekick Kaminski. "The tall one with the low-class English accent abhors guns. He carries an old-fashioned dagger. His playmate, Duff generally totes a veritable arsenal. Be careful, Jon."

Jon stood up. Assisting Clare to her feet, he made eye contact with Duff and slipped into character. "Hiya guys."

"Mr. Wellington sent us to collect his daughter and encourage you to join us for supper." Duff informed him in a reasonable tone.

"Oh yes, Jonnie, do say you'll come to supper." Clare begged convincingly.

"I…" Jon scratched his neck. "Wow, that's thoughtful of him, Clare, but I really need to head on home."

Charles stepped closer, his expression mulish. "Mr. Wellington is a very powerful man. I suggest you accept his **cordial** invitation."

Leaning over, Jon kissed Clare's cheek using her small body as a screen. His capable fingers slipped into one deep coat pocket and cautiously fingered his gun. Keeping his tone tranquil, he faced the duo. "Maybe some other time."

Kaminski exposed his dagger with a feral grin. "Oh, but we insist."

'Okay, O'Neill here we go! So much for strategy.'

"How cliché! Where's the melodramatic soundtrack?" Jon taunted unconcerned. "What are you going to do, stick me with that big hat pin?" He chortled. "My granny has one just like it."

Kaminski, intent on marking the smug little shit, jerked forward, his thick lips twitching with rage. "You little…"

Jon sidestepped the older man, narrowly avoiding the deadly blade. Balling his free hand into a fist, he nailed him neatly with an uppercut.

The force of the blow to his solar plexus dropped a breathless Kaminski to the ground.

Jon kicked the dagger away from the downed man and spun around to deal with Duff.

Shocked by the kid's speed and accuracy, Duff pulled Clare to his chest, placing his own knife blade against her smooth throat.

Jon froze.

Laughing humorlessly, Duff artfully pricked Clare's creamy flesh. A burgundy stain spread slowly over the pristine collar of her blue jacket. "How's this for melodrama, punk?"

Jon stared reassuringly into Clare's tear filled eyes. Tightening his fingers, he caressed his hidden weapon. "Let her go."

"Not gonna happen." Duff spat. "I **will** kill her."

Holding his breath, Kearney signaled his men to hold their fire.

Teal'c sighted the man's head and waited. Untimely interference would cost the woman her life. O'Neill would not be pleased. Nevertheless, should it become necessary, the somber Jaffa would choose Jon O'Neill's life over that of Clare Wellington.

Kaminski caught his breath and rose silently to his feet. This was all too easy. While old Charles kept the kid occupied, he retrieved his dagger. Intent on revenge, he crept up behind Jon.

The sound of gunfire rent the air. Kaminski's chest exploded in a cloud of frothy blood. Astonishment transformed his face into a caricature. He fell forward and laid still.

A second gunshot hit Jon in the left shoulder, knocking him sideways.

Several more gunshots reverberated in rapid succession.

Hearing the echo of unknown gunfire, Teal'c abandoned his hiding place. Using the terrain as camouflage, he hurried to aid his warrior brother.

Duff's wild eyes scanned the woods behind the park. "You sold us out bitch!" Dragging Clare along, his knife firmly against her jugular, the crazed assassin made for the Cadillac.

Jon struggled to his feet, staggering, he yanked the gun from his pocket.

A bullet whizzed by Duff's left ear. Ducking down, he used the helpless woman's body as a shelter.

Ignoring the incoming gunfire, Jon steadied his right hand. Taking aim, he squeezed the trigger.

The bullet seemed to hang briefly in mid-air, then plow into Duff's right eye.

Clare, freed from her tormentor's grasp, began to run toward Jon. Simultaneously, another bullet tore its way through her breast.

Shocked, Jon stumbled forward. Embracing Clare, he lowered her shuddering body to the ground covering it with his own.

Kearney watched in stunned disbelief as the airman on his flank squeezed off another round. "What the hell are you doing? Hold your fire!"

The airman redirected his fire barely missing the major's head.

Teal'c moved swiftly. Blind-siding the treacherous airman, he tackled him. "See to Jon O'Neill!"

Kearney nodded and ran to comply. Kneeling down, he attempted to gently roll Jon off the young woman's inert body.

Semi-conscious from loss of blood, Jon sluggishly fought the concerned major.

"Easy there O'Neill, it's me, Kearney." Regretting the need to overpower him, he wrestled the gun from the Jon's vulnerable hand. 'Son of a …He looks so damned young!'

Jon stilled. "The shooter?" He whispered hoarsely.

"Teal'c has him in custody" Kearney informed him quietly. This was his responsibility, his command. "I'm sorry, sir.

"Clare?" Jon's youthful countenance looked haggard, his deep-set brown eyes glazed.

Kearney, glanced over the ruined remains of the woman. "Gone." Using soothing hands, he prevented the besieged youth from viewing the grisly site. "Stay still son. It's not pretty."

"Just like Jack…" Jon closed his eyes and let the dark swallow his remorse.

&&&

The sedan carrying Barrett, Ned and Sam Carter tore around the corner and screeched to a halt.

The sight of a bloodied Jon lying silently in Kearney's arms washed over them like a winter tide. They were too late. Feeling as if she were trapped in some gruesome nightmare, Sam knelt beside the reflection of the man she loved placing a shaky hand over his limp wrist. "Is he…?"

Grimfaced, Major Kearney pressed a field dressing against Jon's wound. "He's in a bad way, Colonel. I think the bullet nicked an artery."

Jon was still alive. Sam mumbled a prayer of thanks.

Raising her voice over the roar of an incoming rescue helicopter, she added, "If he lives I'm going to kill him."

&&&

Somewhere in the distance, the ragged jingle of an impatient phone roused Sassy from her slumber. The room, heavily shrouded in shadow, was unfamiliar. For a moment she was confused. Fumbling a bit, the elderly lady found a lamp and turned it on. Jonathan's lost boy, Charlie, smiled up at her, his mischievous face frozen and framed in silver for all time. Sorrowful memories of the day flooded back into her mind.

The phone abruptly stopped ringing and Jonathan's laconic voice requested someone 'talk to me.' Sassy smiled sadly. The thought that his wry humor would be preserved for all time on a sterile message machine struck her as strangely apropos.

Wondering why neither Daniel nor Jennifer had answered the phone, she opened the bedroom door and padded out into the hall. "Daniel? Jennifer? Hello?"There was no reply.

Worried, Sassy moved cautiously into the kitchen. The backdoor stood ajar; Daniel's crumpled body lay just outside. Rushing to his side, she carefully turned him over, noting a bloody gash over his left temple.

Danny's handsome face was battered, his left trouser leg saturated with his own blood. The knuckles of both his hands were scrapped and bruised. Clearly, he'd put up quite a fight.

Checking his pulse, Sassy was relieved to find it steady and strong. Grabbing a thick dishtowel from the kitchen she used her belt to tie a makeshift dressing around his leg wound. Then, rushing to the phone, she called 911.

Once help was on the way, the feisty Mrs. O'Connor scoped up a heavy frying pan and hurriedly searched the rest of the house. Jennifer Hailey was nowhere to be found.

Sirens pierced the ebony twilight. Daniel winced, his blue eyes opened partially. "Sassy…"

"Rest easy laddie, the police and ambulance are on the way." Sassy lovingly dabbed at the blood from Danny's head wound.

"Call Sam…the bastard took her…they took Hailey." Daniel struggled to raise his head.

"Who took her Danny?" Sassy asked her voice filled with dread.

"He's a mole…a traitor…SGC…" Vertigo assailed his consciousness. "Said…he'd kill her if…trade Jon for her life." Losing the battle, Daniel fainted.

_TBC…in chapter nine. _


	9. Sagacious

23

Sagacious

_Chapter nine of the Candlestick Chronicles._

The veteran pilot eased his helicopter down, landing in the middle of the street. Bodies littered what looked like a quiet neighborhood park. Camouflaged men swarmed the perimeter. A huge black man dragged another from a copse of trees by the scruff of his neck. "Holy…what the hell happened here?" Bates tossed over his shoulder to the two flight nurses riding in back.

Despite a recent tour of duty in Iraq, Harvey Jenkins exchanged a grim look with his partner, Ted Winter. Neither expected to find this kind of carnage scattered across a Colorado suburban parkland. "I count four down."

Without further comment, the pair each hefted a heavy emergency pack and hopped onto the asphalt, ducking beneath the chopper's spinning blades.

A female colonel, clad in her dress uniform and another man garbed in fatigues, hovered over a blood-spattered civilian sprawled on the grass. Using hand gestures, Harvey pointed his partner toward several other neglected bodies and loped over to the trio to administer aid.

Sam squeezed Jon O'Neill's cold, limp hand willing him to hang on. His unlined face was so pale it seemed translucent. "Damn you Jon, fight!"

Kearney reinforced the saturated field dressings already covering Jon's wound and pressed down with his full weight. Glancing up, he spotted the rescue worker headed their way. "Thank God, he's lost so much blood…"

"How many dressings you got there?" Gently pushing the distraught colonel aside, Jenkins knelt and swiftly opened his pack. "How long has he been unconscious?"

"I'm not really sure…a few minutes maybe… three pads saturated through, I just added a fourth." Kearney responded woodenly, but his eyes registered torment. "God, he is barely breathing…"

"You're doing great sir; just keep that pressure on his wound." Jenkins rapidly assessed the victim and grabbed an intubation kit, whistling for his partner. "He's in shock…"

The experienced nurse spared the two officers a compassionate look. "We're gonna insert an endotracheal tube into his windpipe, he needs oxygen and we need to bag him."

Ted Winter joined his partner. "Looks like this one is the only survivor."

Working in tandem, the seasoned flight nurses quickly accomplished the intubation procedure and started several intravenous lines in Jon's forearms.

Transferring the youth to a collapsible gurney, the flight crew loaded him into the waiting chopper.

Sam attempted to join Jon inside the belly of the helicopter, but the pilot stopped her. "I'm sorry ma'am."

The colonel moved out of the path of the rotating blades, her face a mask of regret and sorrow. The pilot secured the door and jumped into his seat, executing a hasty takeoff.

Inside the gleaming metal bird, Jenkins and Winter continued the fight to keep the kid's rapidly failing body alive. Hooking his breathing tube up to a portable respirator, Ted carefully tucked warm blankets around his legs. "So this is General O'Neill's nephew…I served under him briefly…He was as tough as an old boot."

Harvey adjusted the flow clip on the dual IV tubing. He hoped infusing two liters of blood and a liter of Lactated Ringers at a rapid rate would replenish some of the volume the youngster had already lost.

The EKG waves on their patient's heart monitor screamed asystole. "Son of a… he's gone flatline… we're losing him…"

"Charging paddles…300 Joules…stand clear…clear!" Jenkins pressed the paddles against Jon's hairless chest. Thumbing the mechanism, he sent a jolt of electric current racing through the slender youth's body, forcing his heart to start beating once more. "Hot damn, this kid's a fighter…"

While Harvey hung another liter of blood, Ted continued to apply pressure to the lad's still seeping shoulder wound. "Hey Harvey, better radio ahead and tell them it looks like they're gonna need to plug a leaky artery."

"Sure thing." Jenkins opened a channel to the SGC. "Lucky for the kid we were en-route to Petersen when the call came in, another few minutes and he'd of been knocking on heaven's door."

_O_

Major Paul Davis walked briskly along the corridor beside Sergeant Walter Davis. "So Walter, this Captain Carson, is he the best surgeon we have?"

"Yes, sir." Walter had been on duty for almost twenty-four hours without a break and the pace they were setting, a combination sprint-walk, made his legs ache. "I've also taken the liberty of recalling all off duty medical personnel."

"Good, saves me the trouble of making that order." The major commended. "And Captain Brightman?"

"Released from the brig, with an escort, as per your order, sir." Pressing the up button on the elevator control panel, he continued, "The main level reported Captain Carson was about to sign in when the order went out. He's awaiting the chopper on the helipad along with a medical team."

Awed by the little sergeant's efficiency, the Pentagon liaison patted him on the back and entered the open elevator. "Good work."

"Thank you, sir." Walter responded tightly.

The sergeant was uneasy. Few SGC personnel were privy to young Jon O'Neill's real identity. Of course, as O'Neill's aid-de-camp he was one of them. Keeping a tight lid on his feeling of dread was awkward, but under the circumstances necessary. What if they lost him too? Using his index finger, he selected the infirmary level, carefully keeping his face blank.

It was a short ride. The two exited the conveyance at the same rapid pace and set off, each wondering how critical the incoming 'youth' would be.

Paul Davis hated infirmaries; he hated any form of hospital whatsoever. Gratefully, he rarely spent time in one as a patient. Still, he'd visited the SGC's top officers here on more than one occasion.

In the past, Dr. Janet Fraiser had been on hand to reassure him all would be well. She instinctively understood his aversion and put him at ease. Once she'd gently teased him about it, and strangely that humor helped. Without her presence he braced himself for his usual response, extreme nausea. "So Walter, tell me about Carson?"

Pulled from his own reverie, the sergeant chose his words with caution. "Well sir, the captain has a spotless record…"

Walter's tone had taken on a prudent quality; one which the major had quickly learned indicated there was a 'but' coming. "But?" He prodded, stopping short and rocking back on his heels.

Walter fixed his eyes on the major's beribboned chest. "He's earned a bit of a reputation…"

Gesturing with his hand, the amused officer interjected, "Reputation, as in?"

"Well major, General O'Neill called him 'Kit,' sir." Walter told him tentatively wearing a ghost of a smile. "The general hand picked him; he found his attitude…admirable."

Jeez this was like pulling teeth. "Attitude?"

"He's a bit of loose cannon…" Walter continued.

Paul Davis smirked. "In other words?"

Walter's ghost of a smile turned into a wistful grin. "His style is a lot like General O'Neill's."

_O_

The helicopter bearing Jon O'Neill had 'no room for passengers.' Both Colonel Carter and Teal'c took their forced separation from him stoically. Each channeled their barely controlled alarm in differing ways.

Colonel Carter seemed to draw inward, standing silently beside Major Kearney gazing upward long after the helicopter became a mere speck in the darkening sky.

Teal'c used his smoldering need for restitution to intimidate the airman who'd wronged his warrior brother's other self. Releasing the man without snapping his worthless neck had proven to be most difficult for the Jaffa. On his world the dishonorable worm would be dealt with immediately and with unerring finality. The Tau'ri's peculiar concept of 'justice' might hamper him, but it would not deter him from ultimately gaining retribution.

Staring coldly into the man's eyes, the determined extraterrestrial directed his words toward the chief security officer. "I shall accompany this vermin to the SGC, Major Kearney."

Flanked by four security men, the offending airman trembled. Licking his lips nervously, his beady eyes darted back and forth between the enraged faces of the major and the enormous Jaffa.

The major understood and appreciated both the Jaffa's motive, and his restraint. Personally, Kearney looked forward to the former First Prime's method of interrogation. Nodding, the emotionally drained major directed several SF's to cuff their prisoner.

Then, dividing his remaining forces into two groups, Kearney ordered Captain Martin Butterfield and his squad to secure the address Clare had informed Jon and Teal'c was Wellington's local base of operations.

He assigned Lieutenant Anthony Lunette and his team the thankless task of interfacing with the local authorities and removing the bodies strewn around the deceptively idyllic park.

Next, he contacted the SGC to inquire as to just who would be administering Jon O'Neill's urgently needed treatment. Pleased with the information gleaned, he shared it with the Jaffa and Colonel Carter knowing they were as anxious as he himself was. "Captain Carson and a team are already standing on the helipad."

"What about Brightman?" Sam demanded shaking off her stupor. Carson was fine, but he'd need backup. She still desperately missed Janet and found Brightman to be a steadying presence.

"Despite his undisciplined style, Captain Carson is most sagacious, Colonel Carter." Teal'c reassured her, regard for the physician evident in both his tone and manner. "O'Neill would be pleased."

"I know the general hand-picked the captain Teal'c, it's just that…" Sam bit her lip, eyes downcast.

Perceptive as ever, Teal'c sought to reassure his friend, drawing her aside, he spoke softly. "Perhaps, much as Daniel Jackson once did, Dr. Fraiser ascended and is providing Captain Carson inspiration."

Desperate, Sam entertained the notion. "Do you think the general might also be hovering around somewhere?" She whispered, brightening.

"I do indeed." The Jaffa told her soberly, casting a prayer for both incarnations of his warrior brother skyward.

Sam muttered a prayer of her own. Quickly filling the men beside her in on her afternoon 'pursuit,' she caught Malcolm's eye and made a decision. "Teal'c you go along to the base with Kearney. I'm going to update Daniel by phone and ride along with Special Agents Barrett and Drew."

"Teal'c can handle the prisoner. I'll be accompanying Captain Butterfield and his men." Kearney informed them, his tone menacing. "Given that he discovered you were tailing him Colonel, I know it's a long-shot, but if Wellington is still there I want first crack at him."

"Agreed." Gathering his armor of dignity, Teal'c refocused on the task at hand. Bowing slightly, he joined the hapless prisoner's escort.

Sam suddenly found she was feeling weak. Returning to the sedan, she joined Barrett and his assistant inside.

Malcolm noticed her pallor. "When did you last have something to eat, Sam?" He inquired with concern.

"I've lost track…" Sam rubbed her cold hands together. "I need to update Daniel."

Handing her a protein bar and a bottle of water, Barrett snapped open his cell phone and dialed the required number. "I'll do it, you eat."

Sam accepted the bar and began eating without enthusiasm. Barrett's phone rang O'Neill's house, connecting with his machine.

_O_

"The general is going to be pea green with envy! I can't wait to show him that enormous trout you caught, Dad." Travis Dalton chortled. "He's so going to wish he'd come along this weekend."

"Anyone ever tell you that you've got a mean streak?" Grinning fondly, Andy Dalton cuffed his teenage son affectionately keeping one eye on the roadway ahead. "Poor old Jack. Every time we plan a fishing trip something holds him up at the base."

"I don't get it. He's a general, why can't he just order someone else to handle things?" Travis asked petulantly. He'd been looking forward to spending the weekend with both his dad and his hero, the General. "What's the use of being in charge if you can't…"

"Dump your responsibilities on someone else?" Andy asked wearily, returning both hands to the truck's steering wheel.

Sadly, he'd heard the same argument from the boy's mother countless times. Sheriff Andrew Dalton's official duties interfered once too often with his 'personal responsibilities.' His wife Sandra eventually gave up; divorced him and found herself a nice stable accountant.

Now, Andy had to content himself with a few eagerly anticipated weekends with his son, his job and his weekly poker game. "Travis, I wish…"

Hearing the hurt and frustration in his father's tone, Travis regretted his outburst. "Never mind, Dad."

While his mother remained resentful, Travis was proud of his dad. Admittedly up until about a year ago, he hadn't really understood Andrew Dalton's commitment to 'duty and honor.' No, in fact he'd done everything he could think of to give his father a hard time. He'd been a complete brat, often refusing to even spend one hour with his eternally patient sire.

Things came to a head when his mom and stepfather had gone off to Paris leaving him behind in the sheriff's custody.

That first night, his dad's poker buddies came around for their regular game unaware of the obnoxious little monster awaiting them. He'd been deliberately rude, demanding and out of control. He wanted - needed - his father to suffer. Oh yes, Travis's behavior would make any parent cringe. Yet, his dad remained calm and patient.

_O_

Jack O'Neill sat quietly and watched his friend Andy attempt to deal with his unreasonable offspring. The kid's antics reminded him of his own son's similar cantankerous behavior after he'd returned from a particularly long tour of duty. Charlie had been around six at the time and hadn't understood. Jack wasn't sure that his boy ever really understood his dad's obligations; he'd died much too young.

The kid scooped up the poker chips and tossed them into the air. Andy finally had it. "Travis that is enough!" He bellowed.

Frightened by the volume and anger in his father's tone, Travis ran out the backdoor and sat on the porch. He sat there fighting tears, his body curled into a protective lump, arms wrapped around his drawn up knees and waited. Long minutes passed. No one came.

And then, the screen door squeaked. Light footsteps sounded against the wooden porch floor. A man's low sigh was followed by a large body sitting next to him. Expecting his father, Travis refused to look up.

"Ya know, I had a kid once." The general's voice was carefully devoid of emotion. "His name was Charlie and he used to do outrageous things too. It took me a while, but I finally figured out why; he wanted my undivided attention."

Travis turned his head slightly, peeping at the tall man in the moonlight. "So, did he get it?"

Jack casually threw one long arm around the child's shaking shoulders and waited. The kid tensed briefly and then, small body relaxing a little, seemed to snuggle closer. "Yep, but not after a performance like the one you just put on. Nope, behavior like that usually bought him a time-out."

Jack paused, allowing his words to sink in. "Your dad loves you Travis. He generally bores us to tears bragging about what a great kid you are."

Travis sat up and leaned his head against the general's broad shoulder. "Really?" He asked in a small voice.

"Never doubt it, kid." Jack responded solemnly, squeezing the kid's shoulder. "Now, suppose you go on in and apologize."

Getting up thoughtfully, Travis stopped and looked down at the general's smiling face. "What happened to your son?"

The general bowed his head quickly, preventing the kid from seeing the pain his question caused. "I lost him."

The desolation in those three short words washed over the youngster; and in that moment Travis grew up a tad. "I'm sorry." Wrapping his arms around the general's neck, the contrite youth gave the aching man a quick hug.

Jack awkwardly patted the kid's back. After a moment, Travis released him and ran inside to see his dad.

The lonely commander sat out on the porch gazing up at the stars. Travis's heartfelt apology rang through the quiet night. Jack missed Charlie. He lost track of the time, sitting there, sipping his beer and hearing the others laughingly teach Travis the art of poker. Until finally, his butt felt numb and the long necked bottle was empty. Once more in full control of his emotions, he returned to the poker game as if nothing happened.

_O_

Travis remembered that night with a pang. Since then he'd learned just how Jack O'Neill lost his son, and much more. He'd learned to respect men like his dad and the general, and their commitment to a purpose greater than themselves. "Hey, why don't we stop by the general's on the way home and give him a couple of trout?"

Checking the time and the roadway, Andy estimated they were less than a mile outside of town. "Okay, why not. I think old Jack would like that."

"Sweet!" Travis smiled. The general had a load of cool metals and stuff. "Hey Dad, can I turn on the police radio?"

"Sure thing." Andy nodded. He didn't mind sharing his son's affections with a man like Jack O'Neill. "I should check in with the station and see if there is anything pressing going on."

The radio crackled to life greeting them with static. "Looks like everything is quiet," Andy began.

The disembodied and detached voice of the dispatch operator filled the air. "Attention. 911 operator reports assault and battery at the residence of the late General Jonathan O'Neill...one man down with a gunshot wound…assailants no longer on the premises…"

Dalton pressed his foot heavily against his Ford's accelerator. Swerving onto the shoulder, emergency lights flashing, he grabbed his radio handset. "This is Sheriff Dalton, I'm responding to the call…what the hell do you mean 'late General O'Neill?'…"

"Sheriff? This is Nancy Allen, I'm sorry…we tried to reach you at home…" Uncomfortable, the operator took a deep breath and continued, "The general was killed late Friday in an automobile accident."

Jack was dead? Dalton glanced sidelong at his wide-eyed son's shocked face.

"Deputies Wyatt and Preston are en-route to the O'Neill residence Sheriff," Nancy continued. "Along with an ambulance."

"Understood, my ETA is approximately five minutes. Tell those two to secure the area **before** the ambulance personnel approach the house." If Jack was dead, then who the hell was in his house? His son was dead and his ex-wife was long gone.

Dalton knew Jack's job was classified. 'Deep space telemetry,' yeah right. Andy had been in the military himself and knew a phony cover story when he heard it. Besides, Jack's multiple 'training accidents' over the years made it clear he was doing much more than piloting a desk. "Travis, I'm going to drop you off at that park down the street from Jack's place. You wait for me there."

"Oh come on, Dad!" Travis whined. "I can take care of myself."

"I'm not disputing that son." Andy smiled grimly. At thirteen, Travis was fully capable of handling a schoolyard bully, but a perp was an altogether different animal. "Look pal, we have no idea what's going down. I just found out I've lost a friend, I don't want to risk you too."

Hearing the love in his father's tone, Travis reluctantly agreed.

"And besides," Andy muttered, "Your mother would kill me."

_O_

Kris eyed their uninvited guest with disdain. Pushing him into a straight-backed wooden chair, she used surgical tape to secure his right wrist to the sturdy oak.

Jeff hovered nearby, his weapon still poised, his expression grim. The guy's identification revealed he was Air Force, but that didn't mean much. He could be one of the men involved in the plot against the general.

Kris used the thick tape to secure the man's legs to the chair. Leaning over, she whispered scathingly in his ear. "Ya know men often underestimate women." Taking her time, she examined the ragged flesh of his left hand. Mischief had certainly done her job well. "I mean, most men think we're soft hearted. But…cross us and…"

Clucking her tongue, Kris moved to a large cabinet and selected a bottle of disinfectant and gauze dressings.

"Let's just say our bite is worse than our bark." Grabbing his abused hand roughly, she poured the stringent fluid over his wounds. "So I'll ask you once again, what are you doing here?"

Hissing, the watcher tensed his muscles fighting the burning sensation her abrupt actions and the harsh disinfectant caused. Clenching his jaw, he refused to utter a sound.

Disappointed, Kris callously drenched his ravaged flesh once more. Her stomach churned. She knew she was being cruel, but the general's life was in danger, desperate times and all that.

"And who the hell are you?" The watcher bit out between gasps through clenched teeth.

"I asked first." Kris responded her smile was twisted and cold.

This was getting them nowhere. "Enough." Jeff ordered quietly.

He'd never seen this side of her. Her lack of compassion surprised him. "Does he need stitches?"

Jeff's manner pierced her fog of wrath.

"I don't think so; our furry little champion's teeth are very small." She responded softly, applying antibiotic ointment to the injured man's many puncture wounds. "A few of these are rather deep. He'll need a dose of antibiotics."

The watcher raised an ironic brow. "What the hell is this? Am I supposed to believe you actually give a rat's ass?" He snorted with disbelief. "Look you've seen my credentials. I'm an Air Force officer, investigating a possible crime."

"Crime?" Jeff stepped forward shaking his head with disapproval. "The only crime here is breaking and entering."

"Breaking and entering?" The beleaguered officer snapped. Taking a steadying breath, he changed his approach. "This is a clinic, right? The door was open; I came here for some answers."

"Answers? You want answers? Generally folks stop at the desk and ring my bell. They don't slink into the back toting a gun." The amazed doctor's eyebrows connected with his hairline. "No, I think I've got the right of it."

The watcher sighed. "I disagree."

Jeff eyed him appraisingly. "What is it you want to know?"

Ignoring his question, the bound officer glared at the woman in front of him. "The lady here intrigues me."

Kris wrapped fresh gauze around their prisoner's injured hand. "Should I be flattered?"

"Hardly." Lifting his bandaged hand, he looked the dressing over. "Your expansively benevolent nature notwithstanding…I'm guessing you're a nurse, an odd one at that. One who engages in clandestine meetings in seedy bars in the middle of the afternoon."

Startled, Kris perched on the treatment table nearby. He'd tailed her from the bar? "I don't know what…"

"You met Captain Brightman at The Blue Harbor." He went on. "I followed her from the base. Her bulging coat pockets aroused my somewhat dubious nature. As did your friendly little chat and her hasty departure - minus that same fat little coat."

He paused watching her reactions carefully. "Guess where that coat ended up?"

The woman's small pink tongue slid worriedly over her lush lower lip, the watcher smirked. "Yep, you stuffed it into your motorcycle's saddlebag and brought it here. I want to know why?"

Jeff's head moved back and forth watching the exchange. Kris's face flushed; their guest's looked smug. "You want me to believe that you broke into my clinic because this Captain Brightman lost her coat?"

Focusing on the indignant physician, the watcher cocked his head to one side. "Very well played. You gave that just the right amount of self-righteous anger, but we both know I didn't break in."

"You had no business entering one of my treatment rooms. My patients are entitled to both their privacy and confidentiality." Jeff barked refusing to be cowed. "You had no right!"

Crap! This was nuts. Kris wondered if the guy was legit. "Listen mister, all you witnessed was an innocent meeting between friends, nothing more."

"Oh, I don't doubt it was friendly, but innocent?" The officer shook his head, expelling a long breath with a false smile. "Not likely."

Okay it was time to regroup. "I think I've heard enough." Jeff walked over and carefully secured the man's bandaged arm to the chair.

Frustrated by the interruption, the watcher muttered a string of expletives.

Jeff whistled softly. "Do you kiss your mama with that mouth?" Shaking his head, he led Kris from the room.

The two moved thoughtfully down the hall without a word. Jeff leaned his rifle against the wall outside the general's room and tiptoed in to check on his condition.

Kris dogged his steps feeling contrite. "Some guardian I turned out to be." She mumbled ruefully. "What do we do now?"

"Self-flagellation is a waste of energy." Jeff looked up from his perusal of the monitors surrounding the general's bed. "We wait for your buddy Teal'c to call and inform him of our uninvited colonel's identity."

Wrapping her arms around her waist in a gesture of self-comfort, Kris accepted his absolution.

Using her chin, she gestured toward the helpless man in the bed. "How is he?"

Before Jeff could respond, Kris's cell phone chirped.

_O_

The house was alive with activity. Sheriff Dalton pulled his truck alongside the curb and climbed out, gun drawn. Deputy Ethan Wyatt met him as he moved up the front walk.

Responding to Dalton's questioning look, Wyatt began his report. "The building is secure, Sheriff. We arrived at 2032 hours to find the doors standing open. Checking the house and grounds we found an elderly lady sitting on the back deck, cradling an injured man, in his early thirties."

Checking his notepad, Wyatt continued, "The woman identified herself as Molly O'Connor and the gunshot victim as one Dr. Daniel Jackson. She stated he'd been attacked by persons unknown and that a Lieutenant Jennifer Hailey has been kidnapped. Preston is still checking the surrounding area and the medical team is assessing Jackson's injuries."

Dalton listened silently to Wyatt's litany, his face an unreadable mask. "Stay sharp." Patting the green deputy, he walked around to the back of the house using a flashlight to scan the grounds for clues.

Draped in a blanket, Sassy refused to leave Daniel's side. Nor would she relinquish him fully to the paramedics attempting to assess his wounds. In the blink of an eye, she'd lost Jonathan, dear Jennifer was missing and Danny lay bleeding in her arms. Clearly, there had been quite a struggle and yet, she'd heard not a sound. Sassy suspected she'd never sleep easy again.

Andy took in the sight of the woman; arms still wrapped around Jackson, her face a mask of sorrow and squatted down beside her. "Mrs. O'Connor, I'm Sheriff Andrew Dalton. Jack was a friend of mine; he told me a great deal about you, ma'am. I'm here to help."

Sassy looked cautiously up into the man's weathered face. "Sheriff Dalton? Yes, Jonathan spoke of you often…he's…we buried him this morning, Andrew." A single tear rolled slowly down her still smooth cheek. "And now Daniel's been attacked and they've taken Jennifer…"

Gently taking her hands, Dalton nodded to the paramedics. "I need you to explain all this to me Sassy; suppose we let the paramedics take care of Daniel while we talk?"

Realizing she'd been hampering the medical team's efforts, Sassy allowed the kind officer to assist her to her feet and lead her to a nearby deckchair.

"Now…" Andy began in a soft tone, "Who took Jennifer?"

"I don't know. I didn't hear a thing." Focusing stricken eyes on the men aiding Daniel, Sassy mentally shook herself, collecting her thoughts. "We'd gathered here after the cemetery service for an informal wake…"

"We, as in?" Dalton interrupted calmly.

The paramedics removed Sassy's makeshift bandage and ripped Daniel's bloody trouser leg open, exposing an ugly gunshot wound.

Clenching her trembling hands, Sassy licked her lips. "Myself, Dr. Daniel Jackson and Lieutenant Jennifer Hailey. Colonel Carter, Teal'c Murray and Jonathan's nephew, Jon, traveled in separate automobiles and were supposed to meet us here."

One of the paramedics examined Daniel's leg, while the other inserted an enormous needle into in his right forearm.

"They were supposed to meet you, but something happened…?" Dalton coaxed.

The paramedic finished starting the intravenous fluids. Laying the clear bag of solution over his shoulder, he applied a large gauze pad to Daniel's left temple. Then, he secured it in place with a piece of tape.

Sassy grimaced. "I don't know what happened exactly. Daniel told me they'd been delayed; he suggested I take a nap. I'd been up over twenty-four hours you see…"

As the paramedic tending his leg wound, prodded the area, Daniel moaned, fighting them.

Sassy jumped up. Pushing past the intent officer, she knelt beside Daniel once more, grasping his left hand. "It's alright Danny, I'm here."

Daniel stilled, his eyes fluttered open. "Sass?"

"Yes, Danny, it's your old Sass." Careful not to squeeze his battered fingers to hard, she crooned, "Rest easy love, these kind gentlemen are here to help you."

The medic tending Jackson's leg applied fresh pressure dressings to both the entrance and exit wounds in his torn thigh.

Daniel sucked in a fortifying breath. Biting his lip, fighting the searing agony of his left leg, he tried to focus, recognizing in turn, the lady hovering over him, the uniformed paramedics and the sheriff. "Dalton…thank God…my cell phone is on the kitchen table…"

Deputy Preston, returning from his sweep of the perimeter overheard. "The guy's out of his head."

Dalton gave his know-it-all deputy a quelling look. Jackson seemed lucid enough. "Who do you need me to call?"

Swallowing back another moan, Daniel attempted to explain. "Hailey's life is in jeopardy… You need to contact the base at Cheyenne Mountain, speak with Colonel Carter…"

"Find the phone Preston." Dalton ordered.

"Excuse me Sheriff." The lead paramedic pulled the lawman aside. "This man has lost a good deal of blood. I'd like to transport him to the hospital immediately."

"Not just yet." Dalton told him shortly. "This man is attached to the military base up at the mountain; they will most likely want him to be taken there for treatment."

"Delaying this man's transport to a trauma unit is insane! I won't be responsible." Outraged, the paramedic huffed.

"No problem. I'll take responsibility." Hunkering down next to the wounded man, Andy dismissed the medics. "Excuse us for minute gentlemen."

Unsure as to just how much Mrs. O'Connor really knew about her Jonathan, he lowered his voice. "Look Daniel, I don't know you very well, but I did know Jack O'Neill. Suppose you tell me what the hell is really going on."

_O_

Captain Kyle 'Kit' Carson slipped his safety goggles on, adjusting them over the bridge of his aquiline nose. According to the duty sergeant the inbound patient was critical – and General O'Neill's nephew.

The kid had taken a hit to his left shoulder and was losing blood rapidly. The onboard flight nurses reported they'd started several intravenous lines, running both Ringers and whole blood wide open. They'd almost lost the youngster at least once en-route. His blood pressure was critically low and he'd saturated four thick field dressings since lift-off.

After hearing such a report most surgeons would be shaking with trepidation. Not Carson, he saw this as an opportunity to cheat death once more. His piercing green eyes gleamed with anticipation.

Cupping his hand around his mouth, so as to be heard over the roar of the incoming rescue chopper, the self-professed adrenalin junkie barked orders to his staff. "As soon as they hit the tarmac we immediately head straight to the operating room, no short-cuts. Understood?"

"But sir, Major Davis is waiting for us…" Lieutenant Saunders began his eyes wide.

Oh just great, he suspected as much. Non-medical types rarely had a clue. They were all about reports and chain of command; Carson despised that facet of the military.

"I don't care if God himself tries to stop us, run him over. This kid is priority one!" Carson confirmed adamantly.

Debris swirled around their heads as the large helicopter landed. The doors promptly slid open. Two burly flight nurses unloaded a slender portable gurney and rushed forward, avoiding the still whirling chopper blades. One of the men hand bagged the victim with oxygen via an endotracheal tube as they moved.

Carson leaped up on the gurney straddling the kid's thin form with his knees, careful to avoid kneeling on him. Hunching over, as the others pushed the gurney along, he checked out his new patient.

The kid's pulse was thready; his skin cold, clammy and gray. In fact he had all the classic symptoms one expected with hypovolemic shock. "Run another rider of 0.9 normal saline wide open." Carson snapped.

"Already ran three units of blood, two ringers and one saline..." One of the flight nurses mumbled as he hung the requested fluid.

Concentrating on his patient, Kyle ran gloved fingers gently over the boy's shoulder, easing aside the saturated dressings positioned there.

As soon as the pressure slackened, the kid's blood gushed forth rhythmically. "Damn, you were right Jennings, that frigging bastard nicked his subclavian."

Unable to inspect the wound properly while they were in motion, he guesstimated its location. If what he suspected were true then the bullet's trajectory may have done a good deal of internal damage. "Did you find an exit wound?"

Jenkins sucked in a long breath of self-reproach. "Ah, no sir Captain, none." Most likely the bullet had done more than tear a hole in the kid's subclavian artery.

"Explains a lot doesn't it?" Kyle motioned for the man to stop bagging the kid briefly and placed his stethoscope against his bloodstained chest.

The lad's heartbeat was shifted, irregular as hell and faint. "Have the OR set up for a chest tube…he's got a left pneumothorax…apical pulse is shifted, erratic and barely perceptible…" Unless he was terribly wrong, (and he was never wrong) they were dealing with a case of trauma induced cardiac tamponade.

Straddling his patient atop a rapidly moving gurney was no place for the delicate procedure required to address the kid's condition. They needed to get to the operating room - and fast! "Make sure an intra-cardiac kit and an ultrasound machine are standing by, this is gonna be close…"

Pushing the gurney into the elevator, veteran flight nurses Ted Winter and Harvey Jenkins exchanged a knowing look of dread.

Jon's lung had collapsed. Worse, blood was leaking into the thin fibroserous pericardial sac surrounding his delicate heart muscle preventing it from pumping properly. And, if something wasn't done immediately to relieve that pressure, the kid's heart would fail.

The last remnant of Jack O'Neill was seconds away from cardiac arrest and death.

TBC…in chapter ten…

oh, and if you think you know who the Watcher is, let me know. BEG


	10. Man in the shadows

31

Man in the Shadows

_The Candlestick Chronicles_

_Chapter Ten._

Kris Martin snapped her mobile phone shut; her green eyes apprehensive. "I've been ordered to report to the base." Glancing at Jack's still form surrounded by monitors and intravenous tubing, she lowered her voice. "The general's nephew, Jon O'Neill, has been shot. He's in critical condition…"

"What the…?" Jeff Prost finished assessing his patient's condition.

Mindful that the man lying unconscious in the bed was still capable of overhearing, the empathetic doctor stepped away from the bed and lowered his voice; his handsome face registering confusion. "I thought Jon was just a kid?"

Kris swallowed the lump in her throat. If Jon died, Jack would blame himself. Never mind that he was incapacitated at the time. The fact that the younger O'Neill tried to take his place in this whole mess would be enough. She'd seen the protective side of the general on more than one occasion and although he hid his true feelings behind a tough cynical façade, she knew he died a little each time one of his 'kids' did. How much more grief would the death of his young clone cost him?

"The entire medical staff has been recalled." Kris ran a regretful hand over Jack's moist forehead, gently ruffling his short hair. "I'm sorry to dump all this on you Jeff, but I have to go. If I don't show…"

"No worries. I've got your six. The general is safe here with little Mischief and me." Jeff understood. If she didn't report immediately, her career was definitely over, but more than that, a security team might investigate her whereabouts and their secret would be discovered. "What about our uninvited guest?"

"Crap, I forgot about him." Running exasperated hands over her face, Kris resisted the urge to scream. "Once I am able, I'll scan the base computer. If he is Air Force, then he'll have a file."

"All right then, I'll keep our guest 'occupied' until I hear from you." Jeff nodded, returning his attention to his patient. "As for our 'mystery man' here, his condition has improved. His temperature is down to 101 and I'm pretty confident he'll regain consciousness soon."

"Well, that at least is good news." Leaning down, Kris released a soft sigh of relief and bussed Jack's stubble-roughened cheek. "Listen to me Jack O'Neill, I think it's time you got your lazy butt up and out of that bed. Do you hear me?"

Somewhere in the fog, Jack heard, he heard it all. And despite his own debilitated condition, his ever-determined subconscious mind began a desperate quest.

O

Jeff Prost watched the van carrying Kris move away and mumbled an expletive. Secure in the knowledge that the general's physical condition was no longer life threatening, the weary physician headed back to the room where they'd tied their unwelcome intruder securely to a chair; wondering for the hundredth time exactly how it was he'd gotten mixed up in this insanity.

Entering the small treatment room, Prost looked his 'guest' over speculatively. Was he a double agent or just an innocent snoop? Moving to a cabinet, Jeff prepared a large dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics. Pushing resolutely against the syringe's plunger, he forced a small amount of viscous liquid to ooze forth from the long silver needle.

The bound man eyed him suspiciously, lips twisted in a smirk, his jaw clenched in defiance.

Jeff shook his head ruefully. The prisoner's expression reminded him of Bruce Willis in the film Die Hard. "So tough guy, think you can handle a shot in the butt?"

O

Kris eased the Chevy van through the security gates, parked it in its usual place and hustled toward the front entrance.

A waiting SF fell into step beside her as she moved inside the complex and signed in. "Good to see you Captain Martin."

"Any word, Everett?" Kris acknowledged him with a nod.

Ushering her to the waiting elevator, the tall airman shook his head. "No ma'am, nothing on the kid." Stepping inside, Everett filled her in briefly. "Dr. Brightman asked me to personally escort you to the infirmary, Captain. They are bringing Dr. Jackson in by chopper."

Kris leaned wearily against the elevator's rear wall. "By helicopter, why is that?"

Everett kept his eyes on the control panel, his tone carefully bland.

"He's been shot ma'am. Apparently, there was an incident at the general's home. The local paramedics wanted to take Jackson to the civilian facility, but the sheriff called Colonel Carter and she arranged for him to be transported here."

"And the colonel?" Kris asked dreading the response. When one of her team was down, Colonel Carter's cheery side took a powder and her hard-nosed military persona took over.

"En-route, along with an Agent Barrett, NID." Everett stepped aside allowing the captain to exit the conveyance first. Noting the captain's pallor he became concerned. "Are you okay ma'am?"

"Peachy." Kris countered. "Yep, I'm just peachy."

O

Inside the SGC operating room, Dr. Kyle 'Kit' Carson ran an ultrasound probe carefully wrapped in a sterile glove over Jon's betadine stained chest, attempting to get an echoed visual of his battered heart muscle.

Meanwhile, Dr. Elizabeth Brightman needle aspirated Jon's collapsed left lung. Once the excess air was removed, the pneumothorax began to shrink and his breath sounds improved markedly.

Taking a deep breath, she whispered a silent prayer and probed the kid's shoulder wound looking for his leaking subclavian artery.

Locating the damaged vessel, Brightman use a small vascular clamp to temporarily seal off the bleeding. "Okay Carson, that's got it, we don't have much time…"

They needed to crack the young man's chest in order to get inside for a proper look-see, but that would have to wait while Carson relieved the pressure around his heart muscle.

Ignoring his colleague, Carson held out his gloved right hand. The circulating nurse slapped a long intra-cardiac needle attached to a large syringe against his waiting palm.

Without a word, the confident physician plunged the twelve-inch needle into Jon's tender flesh, just left of his sternum. Keeping his eyes on the ultrasound screen, he eased the needle into the sac surrounding Jon's heart and gently pulled back on the hypodermic's plunger; dark red blood filled the 60cc cylinder.

As the device greedily sucked up its load, the stranglehold of pressure caused by the blood trapped within the membrane surrounding his heart muscle eased, and Jon's condition improved rapidly.

"Thank God." Brightman muttered. Using a gloved hand, she lightly probed Jon's left wrist.

Noting that the outline of Jon's heart appeared normal, Carson removed the needle. "How's his left radial pulse?"

Peering over her mask Brightman responded resolutely. "Weak, we need to get in there fast, Kyle."

Grasping a scalpel, Carson prepared to slice through the center of Jon's chest wall. "Okay, people nice and easy."

O

Jack traveled the convoluted pathways of his mind and found the place he was seeking. Drawing his essence deeper into the maze of ancient knowledge and experiences hidden within, he used the power lying dormant there to reach outward.

Mischief, still at her post beside the general, raised her head and whimpered softly.

Jack's body began to glow, like a firefly in the shadows. His spirit floated out and beyond. Drifting over the miles, he finally located Jon.

Summoning Jon's life-force, Jack merged with his clone.

The body of Jack O'Neill rose upward, hovering above his sickbed and it's collection of monitors, stretching the intravenous lines attached to his forearms taut. His inner light enfolded him and increased in intensity.

Mischief, jumped down from the bed barking in alarm. Backing away from the brightness, she turned and ran to find her master.

Jack's spirit embraced that of his double, forcing his compliance.

Emerging from his place of sanctuary, Jon's essence sensed the wisdom in Jack's spiritual entity and acquiesced. Delving deeply into the veiled recesses of his separate self, Jon found a similar power - and the two became one.

Jon O'Neill's draped body was suddenly surrounded by a powerful pulsating white radiance, forcing the medical team to step back shielding their eyes.

Engulfed, Jon's body floated upward, rising toward the ceiling, ripping the intravenous tubing and monitor leads from his flesh. The endotracheal tubing in his throat disconnected from the respirator setting off its alarms and the drapes around his nude body fell away. The small silver clamp, which had stopped the bleeding in his damaged shoulder, clattered loudly as it hit the floor.

As the brilliance increased in intensity, illuminating the entire room, Jon's body seemed to disappear.

Behind the observation room safety glass, Major Davis stood beside a transfixed Sergeant Walter Davis. "Holy mother…It looks like he transformed into a ball of lightening!"

Shaking off his stupor, Walter ventured a guess. "Or an Ascended Ancient…?"

Suddenly, the dazzling glow faded. It was several minutes before the assaulted eyes of the medical team and the two observers were able to focus. Finally, the black spots of residual glare faded revealing the nude body of Jon O'Neill lying once more in silent repose on the operating table.

Dr. Carson recovered first and rushed to his patient's side, reconnecting the endotracheal tubing. Scanning the young man's naked torso, he realized that the wound in Jon's shoulder no longer existed. Stunned, Kyle ran the ultrasound probe over Jon's sealed flesh unable to locate the bullet that had so recently done so much damaged. "Every one of his organs appears normal…there is absolutely no sign of injury."

Elizabeth Brightman ran a critical eye over the sedated youth and reapplied the pulse-oxygen monitor. "Vital signs are stable and he is saturating at 100 ."

Overwhelmed, Corpsman Dimato genuflected, hands moving fluidly to form the four corners of the cross, his downcast eyes fixed on the discarded vascular clamp. Frank's round eyes dilated with wonder as his finger seemed to move of their own volition to scoop up a misshapen lump of metal. Rising, he opened his gloved palm and displayed the missing bullet still covered in Jon's blood.

Speechless, Carson stared into the equally amazed face of Dr. Brightman.

Elizabeth slowly took in the rest of the dumbfounded medical team. "Well folks, I don't have a clue what just happened here, but my brother the priest would say we've just witnessed a miracle."

O

Following his little dog's lead an anxious Jeff Prost burst into his patient's room and found the general's deep-set brown eyes boring into him.

"At the risk of uttering a cliché…where am I?" Attempting to rise, Jack managed to lift his shoulders about eight inches from the sheets and then fell limply back against the bedding.

The unknown man moved to offer assistance, but Jack stayed him with a growl. "Stay right where you are. Don't let this naked and helpless act fool you, I'm far from harmless."

Hearing the deadly earnest in the general's tone, Jeff backed up a space and waited silently.

Summoning his last vestige of strength, Jack O'Neill's mind commanded his feeble body to sit up and swing his trembling legs over the side of the bed. 'Crap, I'm as weak as a newborn! Yeah right, a newborn rattler!'

Understanding O'Neill's need to gather his dignity, Jeff resisted the urge to assist him.

Adjusting the thin sheet over his pride, the ever-tenacious O'Neill affected a sneer and added dryly, "Yep, I've been known to snap a man's neck in my sleep."

Mischief let out a happy bark and jumped up beside her charge. Jack allowed the small bundle of fur to lave him enthusiastically with her wet tongue. Recalling the little animal's comforting presence during his struggle in the midst of torment and pain, he found himself suddenly overcome with bittersweet joy. Sensing his acceptance, the mini-collie snuggled closer, bringing a smile to his parched lips.

Jeff noted the effect his sheltie had on the obviously confused, yet defiant general and spoke up. "No need to kill me just yet, General O'Neill. You're quite safe here with my dog Mischief and me. I am Dr. Jeff Prost and you are a patient in my clinic."

Jack looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings and then back at the man claiming to be a physician. "How…?"

Jeff crossed his arms and cocked his head toward the thick dressings scattered over O'Neill's arms and left side.

"Well, I'm a bit sketchy on a few of the particulars." He began carefully.

"But…" Jack's long elegant hand motioned for him to get on with it.

Clearly the general had little tolerance for long dissertations. Jeff got to the point. "Suffice it to say, someone posing as your driver shanghaied you. Evidently, you resisted and were shot, then took a nasty fall down a mountainside."

That, at least, explained his thundering headache. "Okay…and I ended up here why?" Jack's thick gray brows rose in consternation.

"Well, as I understand it, your nephew and someone called Teal'c found you and ah…" Exactly how did one tell a general that he'd been found in critical condition, stuffed into a body-bag, declared dead, hidden inside a van/ambulance and hustled to a backwoods clinic by a lone woman hoping to save him from a band of unknown evil-doers?

Prost's hesitation didn't bode well. Jack ran an exasperated hand over his aching forehead and moaned audibly. "Apparently, someone thought I'd be safer here than back at the base infirmary, right?"

"Well, it's a tad more complicated…" Jeff began sheepishly.

"It always is, Doctor…Prost is it?" Jack asked his voice suffused with irony. "Look Doc, I'm a big boy, what's say you just start from the beginning and spill it?"

Jeff tucked his fists into his jeans and rocked back on his heals thoughtfully. Kris's description of O'Neill's flair for sarcasm had been right on.

"How's about I check you over while we talk?" Jeff approached his patient cautiously. Kris warned him emphatically that the general could be a tad unpredictable and he wasn't sure he'd earned his trust quite yet.

Inhaling deeply, Jack eyed the good doctor for a moment. Then nodded gingerly and grimaced. "Crap, feels like some joker used my head for batting practice."

"Oh, that's most likely due to the skull fracture." Jeff held up two fingers and then moved them slowly back and forth in front of the general's eyes. "How many do you see?"

"Two." Jack snapped. Reaching out, he snatched the man's penlight before he could shine it into his sensitive eyes. "Stop that, you're making me dizzy."

"Sorry." Prost's face reddened slightly. Changing tactics, he placed his stethoscope against Jack's chest and listened intently.

Impatient, Jack removed the cold bell of the device from his naked flesh and spoke into it loudly. "You were saying?"

Squelching a smirk, Jeff tossed his stethoscope on the bedside table and checked the general's forearms. Thanks to Kris's warning regarding the injured O'Neill's tendency to become combative in unknown surroundings, he'd applied extra tape and dressings to both intravenous insertion sites. "Well, as I said General O'Neill, you were shot. The bullet thankfully passed right on through the soft tissue missing your vital organs. However, they didn't find you for quite some time and you lost a good deal of blood."

Satisfied that both IV lines were intact, he continued with his explanation, "And unfortunately, due to pieces of cloth and the muck they found you lying in, that wound became grossly infected. It took a massive dose of antibiotics and no small amount of luck, but it looks like we managed to pull you through successfully."

Jeff removed the thick blood stained dressing covering the general's left side, only to find an uneven pale red scar. His carefully inserted sutures protruded from the angry flesh like frayed threads in a tapestry.

"That's strange." Arching a curious brow, he gently removed the corresponding dressing on O'Neill's back, and gasped.

A similar fresh formation of scar tissue had somehow miraculously formed overnight, replacing the large and gaping exit wound, which had robbed his abused tissue of so much blood. Something more than luck, good medicine and skill, had healed his patient.

Flabbergasted, Jeff began to remove several other smaller dressings covering various portions of the general's anatomy.

In each case, the lacerations and cuts appeared several weeks old.

Jack ran a questing palm over the raised and slightly sensitive pink and puckered flesh just below his ribs. A vague memory tickled his mind. "Just how long have I been out of it?"

"A little overt thirty-six hours, general." Jeff struggled to keep his astonishment from coloring his voice; this was surreal!

The observant physician caught the fleeting signs of understanding in the general's expression. O'Neill didn't seem at all surprised by the unusually rapid regeneration of his tattered flesh. "If you feel up to it, I'd like to get another set of x-rays. And then, I suppose we should remove all these unneeded sutures."

Uncomfortable with the dawning revelation flooding his mind and the deceptively calm timbre of the young doctor's tone, Jack calmly patted the sheltie still resting against his side and encouraged Prost to continue his saga. "You still haven't told me how I came to be here in your care."

Darting out into the hall briefly, Jeff returned with a wheelchair. "My x-ray machine is just next door."

Ignoring his patient's groan of protest, he helped the still weakened O'Neill ease into the low seat of the chair.

Panting slightly, Jack's long fingered hand reached down and engaged the wheelchair's brake.

"I'm not budging until I get a full explanation." He barked irritably.

Seated alongside his chair, Mischief cocked one ear, tilted her delicate head inquiringly and whined.

"Kris Martin is an old friend of mine." Jeff squatted down beside the little canine offering her a reassuring pat.

Adjusting the sheet over O'Neill's trembling legs, he busied himself with hanging the general's IV fluids on the pole attached to the chair. "We served together in the gulf. As I said, you were in pretty bad shape. In order to protect you, she had to act fast."

"Why?" Jack interjected quietly.

Rising, Jeff considered the blunt question. Pulling up a chair, he crossed his arms and leaned back. "That was **_my_** first question."

Jack raised one brow. "So?"

The physician's face clouded briefly. "Your nephew and the man Teal'c informed everyone that you were dead. They hid you inside a body-bag and spirited you to a waiting Kris, who loaded you inside an unmarked Chevy van and then hustled you here for emergency treatment."

Resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, Jeff's fingers entwined, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his hands together. "It's been an eventful weekend."

"So, I'm dead?" Jack parroted softly his face devoid of emotion.

Jeff pressed his lips together and nodded. "Um, yes, and buried, as of this morning."

Running an absent hand over the little dog's soft head, Jack digested that tidbit for a moment.

The pieces fit. If someone wanted to perpetuate the idea of his demise, a funeral would be the icing on the cake. "Go on."

"Kris, ah, Captain Martin was recalled to the base for an emergency about an hour ago. She left you in my charge." Jeff's eyes avoided the general's stare, his tongue darted nervously over his lower lip.

"And?" Jack knew the doctor was holding something back. A vague memory tickled him once more.

"We ah, well…there is this man, supposedly an Air Force colonel, tied up down the hall." Jeff hedged.

"Ah!" Jack's wry grin caught the uncomfortable physician off-guard. "An Air Force officer you say? Yes…tying the 'supposed colonel' up would be my first choice too."

"We caught him sneaking in earlier and well, we had no way of knowing if he was one of the ones responsible for your predicament!" Jeff rushed on defensively. "And, we were concerned about keeping you a secret."

"Of course you were." Waving his hand dismissively, Jack coughed lightly. "What is this hypothetical officer's name?"

Fishing in his pocket, Jeff found the man's wallet and held it out for O'Neill.

Jack set the leather billfold in his lap and flipped through the identity cards nestled within. Looking up, he assumed his command voice. "Take me to him, airman."

Startled, Jeff jumped to his feet assuming a military stance. "How did…?"

Excited by her master's manner, Mischief spun in a circle barking enthusiastically.

Stifling a grin, Jack released the wheelchair's brakes. "Prost, I've been a senior officer for over twenty years, I can peg one of my own a mile off. Now hustle."

Shushing the little pup, he started to propel himself forward. "I want to interrogate your prisoner."

"I have to warn you general, Mischief attacked him and well, she did a bit of damage." Jeff grasped the handles of the wheelchair and guided it through the door and into the hall. "She's quite a watchdog." He added proudly.

"I can see that Doc." Covering his mouth to hide his amusement, Jack admired the sheltie as she pranced beside his chair. "Good girl, Mischief."

O

Searching for tranquility, a woozy Jennifer Hailey fought the cold, silent darkness. Bound as she was it was difficult not to give in to the rising panic that threatened to sap her of her sanity. How long had it been? Was Daniel alive or dead? What about Sassy?

Cursing herself for a fool, she struggled against the tight bonds securing her small wrists behind her back. Her stiff knees and ankles were trussed up as well, making finding a comfortable position here on the icy dank floor impossible. Distorted visions of Jon's face at the graveside flooded her mind, giving in, she collapsed.

O

Malcolm Barrett sat back and calmly watched an impatient Sam Carter pace the hall just beyond the infirmary. "Sam you're wearing a hole in the floor. Relax will you? Jackson is gonna be fine. And, according to that arrogant surgeon Carson, once the anesthesia wears off the kid is going to recover completely."

"Yeah, weird isn't it?" Ned Drew tilted his chair back allowing it to rest against the wall. "I mean, I don't mean to sound insensitive, but I thought the kid was a goner."

Feeling off-balance, Sam ignored the pair. When Sheriff Dalton reached her by phone, she'd insisted on proceeding immediately to O'Neill's home.

En-route she'd contacted the SGC and ordered a medical flight crew to meet them there by chopper.

ooo

Crouching over Daniel's battered and unconscious form, Sam was deeply affected. Attempting to regain her composure, she fell back on her ingrained military guise of indifference.

Casting a glance upward into the somber and watchful face of Andy Dalton, she demanded details. "Have you or your men discovered anything of value, Sheriff?"

Dalton rubbed the back of his neck, affecting an aw-shucks stance, annoyed by her uncompromising tone. "Well, ma'am…"

Sassy wasn't fooled by Samantha's coldness. Enfolding the younger woman's chilly hand within her own warm and comforting grasp, she interrupted Dalton. "Samantha, Daniel wasn't able to tell us much…he passed out soon after Sheriff Dalton arrived."

Sassy's sympathetic tone threatened to shatter Colonel Carter's fragile façade. "But, he did tell you something didn't he?" Releasing the older woman's hand, Sam abruptly stood.

Dismissing the civilian paramedics, she directed the newly arrived flight team to evacuate Daniel STAT.

Once Jackson and the flight medics were away, she refocused her concentration on Dalton and Sassy's recollection of events. "I need to know Daniel's exact words."

Taking his cue from Mrs. O'Connor's encouraging smile, Dalton was concise. "My men, responding to a 911 call, found the lady here hovering over a wounded Jackson. Noting that Mrs. O'Connor had a handle on first aid they checked the house and the perimeter…"

"And?" Sam interrupted.

"There was no sign of an intruder or the missing woman." Dalton continued, "I arrived shortly after and Jackson requested I phone you. He said this Hailey had been abducted by three men. One of whom he recognized from the base."

"Did he give you a name?" Sam pressed.

"I don't think he knew the man's name." Andy shook his head thoughtfully. "He really wasn't up to much of a discussion. Once he passed out I nosed around some."

Scanning the man's face, Sam tilted her chin upward with a small smile. "You found something."

"I found signs of a struggle out here on the deck…that got me thinking. Why out here?" Returning her smile, Dalton reached for the plastic bag nestled safely in his fishing vest. "And when one of the paramedics injected Jackson with a hypodermic, I gave into a hunch. I found this in the bushes just beneath the deck."

Inside the evidence bag, lay a small syringe, a broken needle protruding from its end. "I figure they drugged the girl when she came out here for some air. My guess is she put up a fight. Jackson came to her rescue and after they shot him…well, he's not superman."

"You'd be surprised." Sam whispered. The once bookish Daniel Jackson she knew and loved had come a long way in the past eight years.

"He said they wanted to make a trade." Sassy said softly. She was weary. Despite her feisty disposition and razor sharp intellect, the events of the past several days were taking their toll.

"Jackson mumbled something about a plot." Dalton concurred. "He said someone called the Marquis kidnapped Hailey in order to exchange her for Jack's nephew."

His shrewd eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Mrs. O'Connor told me this Jon is a teenager. Why would they want a kid?"

"Dad!" Travis Dalton's adolescent squeak heralded his breathless arrival. "Hey, did you see that chopper?"

Chasing after him, Ned Drew grabbed the youngster and gently restrained him.

"Does he look like a threat to you special agent?" Exasperated, Dalton moved to intercept his son. "Travis, I told you…"

"I got tired of waiting." Shrugging the man's hands from his shoulders, Travis scuffed a shoe against a deck stair.

Dalton hid a smile of indulgence. Throwing an apology over his shoulder, he hustled the lad back to his truck. "Excuse me a moment."

"Samantha," Sassy plucked at Sam's sleeve to gain her attention. "I'd like to be there for Danny, but someone needs to stay here in case the kidnappers call."

"Agent Barrett is arranging for a crack team of negotiators." Ned told her gently.

"You are coming with me to the mountain. It's not safe here for you. I've no way of knowing what this so-called Marquis' plan is." Sam tucked the evidence bag inside her uniform pocket. "And, the temporary base commander will want to debrief you."

Striding up the walkway, Malcolm Barrett overheard. "Drew, why don't you assist Mrs. O'Connor in gathering her things. Then escort her to the sedan."

As the pair moved inside the house, Malcolm waylaid the returning sheriff and filled him in. Promising his department's full cooperation, Dalton agreed to Barrett's plan.

Mrs. O'Connor insisted on hugging Andy before she'd allow the young special agent to bundle her into the dark sedan. During the interminable drive to Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Ned did his best to distract her from her worry over Jackson and Hailey.

Once inside the base, he insisted on escorting Sassy to the visitor's quarters. His soothing words and promise to keep her informed seemed to allay the lady's immediate concerns.

An ex-military wife, Sassy understood the phrase 'need to know' and agreed to remain safely ensconced in her temporary quarters.

Major Davis and his new sidekick, Walter, met the colonel and Barrett as they exited the elevator just outside the infirmary.

Handing off the hypodermic, still encased in plastic, to Sergeant Davis, Carter efficiently briefed the unusually quiet and preoccupied major.

"I need to interface with the Pentagon. I'll check in later after Dr. Brightman has finished treating Dr. Jackson." Paul Davis, still shaken by the amazing events in the operating theater, needed some time to gather his thoughts and regroup. "Sergeant, I trust you'll see that the contents of the syringe the colonel brought us are analyzed immediately."

"Yes, sir." Walter responded promptly. Nodding to the colonel, he retreated to the lab.

"Well then if you'll excuse me." Major Davis turned to leave and hesitated. "I've asked the doctor to apprise you both of Jackson's condition as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Major." Sam replied softly. As he moved away, a visibly smoldering and barely restrained Teal'c, trailed closely by Ned Drew, joined them.

Moving to Sam's side Teal'c placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I have been informed that Jon O'Neill's condition has improved remarkably."

Weighed down by her grief and apprehension, Sam bit back an angry retort. Now was not the time for reprisals. However, once Jon fully recovered, she planned to take both the venerable Jaffa and the errant clone to task; relying on Daniel to add a thing or two, employing his gift for diplomacy to take the bite out of her reprimand.

Moments later, a harried Dr. Brightman and a self-possessed Dr. Carson, heeding the major's request, spared the group a quick word.

"Kris Martin is prepping Dr. Jackson for the OR." Brightman lightly squeezed Sam's forearm. "He's lost a good deal of blood, but thankfully the bullet went through the meaty portion of his thigh."

"Well that's good news." Malcolm spoke up. "How's the kid?"

"And, you would be?" Kyle Carson gave the unknown man an arrogant perusal.

"Barrett, Special Agent, NID." Unruffled, Malcolm returned Carson's stare.

"The boy will be fine." Carson replied brusquely, Barrett's self-possessed attitude kindled his grudging respect. However, he wasn't about to share the unusual 'incident' in the OR with a stranger.

"He's recovering from the effect of the anesthesia." Elizabeth added informatively.

Sam had the uncomfortable feeling the two were hiding something. "I'd like to sit by him…"

"No, I'm afraid he's not up to company just yet." Brightman responded sharply, shaking her head.

Carson made a show of checking his watch. "Now if you'll excuse us we need to return to the operating room."

With that the two physicians strode off.

"I too must take my leave." Digesting the news that his charge and his friend were out of immediate danger, Teal'c reluctantly hastened off to the brig, leaving the colonel behind to stew; relishing the imminent interrogation of the airman who'd killed Clare Wellington and critically injured young Jon O'Neill.

ooo

"Why did they take Hailey and leave Daniel behind?" Sam stopped pacing, fixing her troubled eyes on Barrett.

Malcolm thought the question over. "Simple, she's an attractive young woman."

Frustrated, Sam snorted. "You've lost me."

Malcolm cocked his head and looked up into her gorgeous blue eyes. Taking her arm, he stood up and gently pushed her into his chair. "Now, I know you are exhausted."

Ned picked up his boss's thread. "Sure, the rat likes to use women. Case in point, he used Clare to get to Jon… so…"

"Oh yes, **that** was so very successful." Sam interjected jadedly.

"Think about it Sam." Malcolm coaxed. "We know that Wellington was a close observer at the funeral."

Sam shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. "All right, but…"

"Even I could see that Jon and Hailey were close." Malcolm continued. "I mean, she took his hand and hovered over him…"

"You've got a point." Sam agreed.

What was wrong with her? She was usually the first to see the obvious. "I'm just amazed they got to the lieutenant so easily. Don't let her stature fool you, she's tough and capable. The general took particular pride in training her."

"I'm sure she's a paragon." Malcolm conceded easily. "However, this Wellington is no ordinary threat. Remember, he took out the legendary General Jack O'Neill."

'That's something I'll never forget.' Sam thought despondently. "Still, I'm anxious to hear what Daniel has to say about it."

"Well, that lady doctor made it very clear we'd have to wait a while." Ned groused. "Man oh man, she's bossy. The woman's a regular dictator!"

Napoleonic power monger!' Jack O'Neill's voice seemed to ring eerily in the distance.

Sam turned her head sharply. Holy Hannah, she was losing it. "Look, I think you're right."

"I am?" Ned squeaked. Jeez, he'd been trying to make her smile.

Sam patted Ned's arm reassuringly. Smiling wryly, she stood up, focusing blearily on Barrett. "About me, I mean. I am exhausted. I'm going to check in on Sassy in the V.I.P. quarters and then grab a quick nap. Let me know if anything…"

Malcolm nodded. "Ned and I will stay right here just in case..."

"Thanks." Casting a wistful glance toward the infirmary door, she turned and moved away, desperately missing Janet - and a certain irreverent Irishman.

"Ah, sir?" Ned whispered tentatively.

"Hmm?" Malcolm watched Sam's delectable bottom sway gently up the hall.

"Do you suppose the general and the colonel…?" Ned hesitated. "That is, I know it's technically against regulations, but could they have been more than…well, friends?"

"You've gotten to know the colonel a bit today Ned. What do you think?" Malcolm countered mildly.

"I think if they were just friends, then O'Neill must have been blind or…" He'd been about to say dead, but somehow it seemed inappropriate given the circumstances. "Or something."

Malcolm, his eyes still glued on Sam, merely smiled; giving Ned the distinct impression that as usual, his boss knew more than he was willing to share.

O

The enormous Jaffa sat rigidly in the small folding chair, his exotic face emotionless. Kearney would later liken his stance to that of a panther ready to pounce on his prey. Standing off to one side, the major kept his own counsel. Given the circumstances, this interrogation belonged entirely to the man from another world. Besides, the ordinarily level-headed security chief wasn't sure that he'd interfere even if Teal'c completely lost it and crushed the little bastard's skull between his meaty bare hands.

Trent Stokes did his best to appear impassive as a trickle of telltale sweat zigzagged slowly down the center of his muddy forehead and ran into his eyes. Staring blankly back at his tormentor wasn't easy, but then Stokes was one of the best. At least, his superiors thought so. Frankly, Trent was having his doubts right about now. At this point, his mission could only be described as FUBAR.

Glancing at the stoic major leaning casually in the corner, the errant Stokes wondered if he should come clean. It was doubtful Kearney would allow the alien to truly harm him - the man was a bit of a boy scout. Still, Stokes had his doubts. Straightening his shoulders, he found a spot on the wall above the Jaffa's dark head and fixed his attention on it.

Canny as ever, Teal'c recognized Stokes moment of doubt. "Perhaps you would excuse us, Major Kearney." He rumbled ominously.

Offering the object of the Jaffa's wrath a look of abject pity, Kearney nodded and left the room. Allowing the cell door to clang loudly closed, he noisily locked it behind him.

"Now we are alone." Teal'c allowed his rusty baritone to convey his malice. Leaning forward, his massive body seemed to quiver with glee. He smiled coldly. "In this time and place you have entered my world, Shol'va. Here we play be my rules."

Despite his best effort to appear unmoved, Trent gulped.O

Twisting against his bonds, he ignored the throbbing agony of his ravaged left hand. It had been at least twenty minutes since the vicious little dog had led her misguided master off somewhere. He could hear the indistinct sound of at least two male voices somewhere down the hall. Wriggling slightly, he winced as the tender spot on his rump where the decidedly sadistic doctor had injected him met the hard wood frame of the chair.

It was no use. Mere brute strength was no match for the thick surgical tape the crazed biker woman used to secure him in his seat. Cursing softly, he allowed his body to go limp and noticed that the tape around his left wrist seemed to be a bit loose. Leaning over, he used his teeth to widen the gap.

He'd just succeeded in working his bandaged hand free, when the voices moved closer.

"Are you sure about this, sir. I mean…" Jeff Prost questioned as he pushed the general's wheelchair through the open door.

"Sheesh, pipe down would ya, you're not helping my head any ya know." Jack O'Neill threw petulantly over his shoulder.

"Mother of…what the hell?" The prisoner declared loudly. Smiling broadly, he chortled. "General O'Neill, you're alive!"

"Ya think?" Jack quipped snappishly. Clucking his tongue, he added. "I hear the pooch here whipped your butt, colonel."

"I knew you two were up to something!" Snarling, the colonel fixed a jaundiced eye on the thunderstruck physician, fighting against his bonds. "I demand you release the general immediately!"

"Tone it down will ya?" Squinting slightly, O'Neill scrunched his shoulders.

"I appreciate your concern Karl, really I do, but the only prisoner here is you." He added dryly.

Karl Draymak's mouth gaped as he digested the general's words. "I don't …"

"Understand?" Jack supplied his tone wary. "Well that makes two of us. What are you doing here, Draymak?"

"I… that is General O'Neill, sir… after your ah, funeral…," Karl began uncertainly. "I thought I'd do a little investigating of my own. The circumstances surrounding your death seemed dubious."

O'Neill leaned his aching head in the palm of his right hand. "Go on."

"Well, general your death in a mundane motor vehicle accident struck me as…shall we say **_perplexing_.**"

Eyeing the doctor, Karl chose his next words carefully. "Especially, given the **nature** of our last conversation, sir."

Shifting uncomfortably in the hard chair, Karl continued his narrative. "I arrived just outside the SGC and spotted one of the medical officers leaving with a suspiciously overstuffed topcoat."

Jeff Prost rolled his eyes and released a long-suffering sigh.

"Well sir, to make a long story short…" Karl continued.

"Yes, let's keep it short shall we?" Jack muttered. The conga line dancing in his head picked up the tempo.

Karl suppressed a grin. "Well sir, the trail led me here and regrettably, the doctor's ferocious canine took an instant dislike to me."

"She was defending the general from an intruder, namely you!" Insulted, Jeff Prost objected. "Frankly, you're lucky you got off so easy!"

"Stuck your hand out didn't you?" Jack took in the colonel's bandaged left hand and raised a knowing brow.

Flushing, Karl's eyes dropped to inspect the toes of his shoes. "Yes sir, I did."

"Let me guess, you had a pet cat as a child." Jack surmised mildly.

Draymak looked sheepish and shrugged. "Mom was allergic."

"Ah." Jack responded simply.

Cocking his head with a smirk, he added, "Dr. Prost, I think it's safe to release the colonel, don't you?"

"I'm satisfied if you are." Jeff snatched up a pair of bandage scissors and set about cutting the beleaguered officer free. "Just keep in mind; my dog doesn't particularly like you, colonel. Step out of line and…"

On cue, Mischief peeped out from behind the general's wheelchair and growled softly, baring her teeth.

"Dogs are some of my favorite people." Jack beamed. Leaning over, he patted Mischief once more.

Karl stood up slowly and stretched his tight muscles, keeping a wary eye on the dog at the general's feet. "If it's not too much to ask, I'd like to know precisely what the heck is going on, sir."

"I'd like to oblige you Draymak, but I'm feeling a tad off at the moment." Dizzy, Jack closed his eyes and covered them with both hands.

Recognizing O'Neill's difficulty, Jeff slowly pushed the general's wheelchair back into his room. "Help me get him back into bed, Colonel."

Karl followed along behind, careful not to disturb the escorting sheltie. The two managed to get the wincing general back into bed quickly.

Jeff wet a cloth with cold water in the nearby sink and laid it over O'Neill's sweaty brow. "Hang in there, sir. I'll give you something to help ease the pain and vertigo."

Battling the screaming pain in his head and the whirling dizziness, Jack merely grunted.

Mischief jumped up on the narrow bed alongside him, resting her soft head against his arm, she once again assumed her role as protector.

Administering a hefty dose of medication, Prost put a finger against his lips and motioned for Draymak to follow him down the hall.

Leading the colonel into the kitchen, Jeff filled two cups with strong coffee. "Now, suppose we swap stories and grab a bite. The general will be out of it for a while."

"Why not?" Sliding gratefully into a chair, Karl accepted the proffered cup. "How's about we start with a proper introduction? I'm Colonel Karl Draymak, United States Air Force Flying Thunderbirds…and you are?"

"Sorry about the hand, Colonel." Leaning against the kitchen counter, Jeff smiled and tipped his coffee cup toward Draymak's gauze covered left limb. "Name's Prost, Major Jeff Prost, M.D. United Sates Air Force, retired."

"Forget it, I've had worse." Karl snorted relieved. "I'm just grateful the general is in the capable hands of one of our own."

Sipping his coffee, Jeff mutely accepted Draymak's confidence.

O

Colonel Samantha Carter rounded the bend in the corridor expecting to find an SF or two standing post just outside the visitor's quarters.

Consequently, she was taken aback to find the door standing open and Mrs. O'Connor holding court just inside.

Airman Rowan Thompson was the first to spy the colonel peering into the room. "Ten hut!" Jumping from his chair, spilling his tea in the process, he stood rigidly at attention.

Across from Thompson, Airman Phillip Hauser choked on his last sip of the hot beverage and followed suit.

Unperturbed, Sassy dabbed at the spilled fluid marring her small table and offered Sam a welcome look. "Oh Samantha, you're just in time. The tea is still hot. Have a seat and join us, won't you?"

"At ease." Arching her left eyebrow, Sam directed her gaze at the two errant airmen and pursed her lips sourly, preventing the smile that threatened proper military discipline. "If you're both quite finished here, perhaps you'd like to assume your posts?"

"Ma'am!" The two responded as one. Nodding their thanks to Mrs. O'Connor, the blushing pair rapidly left the room.

Stepping inside, Sam closed the door and took a seat across from Sassy with a frown. "I suppose you know you're a bad influence?"

"Forgive me dear, I was feeling rather lonesome." Contrite, Sassy folded her hands in her lap. "And the boys…well, I think Jonathan's death has taken its toll on many of the youngsters in his command."

Hearing the longing and sorrow in the older woman's voice, Sam relented. Realizing she was thirsty, she hefted the plain porcelain teapot and poured herself a cup of the rich caramel colored brew. "I thought you were resting."

"It's difficult to rest when people you care about are hurting." Sassy whispered.

Silently sipping her tea, Sam had to agree. 'It's next to impossible.'

Understanding Samantha's need for a moment to collect her thoughts, Sassy sat back quietly for a time watching the unconscious play of emotions cloud the younger woman's face.

Lost in contemplation, Sam stared at her cup. Memories of one of the general's famous backyard barbecues and his penchant for charring the steaks flooded her mind.

She could still hear O'Neill and Daniel's affable banter and Teal'c's corresponding rumble of mirth.

"How is Daniel?" Sassy inquired softly breaking the spell. "And, my dear, I'd appreciate knowing if young Jon O'Neill is going to recover."

Startled, Sam's mouth gaped. "What?"

"Ned informed me of the lad's injury." Sassy continued. "I must say this whole affair is rather fantastic. And, I must confess I'm incredibly angry."

"Angry?" Leaning forward, Sam eyed the woman intently.

"Yes dear." Sassy returned Sam's searching gaze steadily. "You've all been keeping me very much in the dark and frankly, I am not going to tolerate it further. Someone, has killed one of my boys, kidnapped that sweet little lieutenant and injured both Danny and young Jon. It's time we got busy."

"Busy, how?" Sam parroted perplexed.

"First off, you'll need to acquaint me with everything you know." Sassy demanded confidently. "My husband was a naval commander during the cold war; I know a thing or two about keeping a secret."

Rocking back in her chair, the elderly virago continued with enthusiasm, "Then, we formulate our strategy and I deal with the kidnappers…"

Smiling indulgently, Sam shook her head. "No ma'am, you're…."

"Poppycock!" Slapping a hand against the table petulantly, Sassy grinned wryly. "I'm the perfect operative. Who would ever suspect me?"

O

Sixteen months of hard work and what did he have to show for it? One dead general and a dying teenager, that's what!

Jefferson cursed the day that his contacts chose to involve the infamous 'Marquis' in their convoluted scheme.

Privy to information that Kearney and his contingent had deployed to parts unknown, he knew it was time to abandon his pretense. And, when word came that Jon O'Neill was near death, he'd slipped virtually undetected out of the SGC. A feat many would have found daunting, but then, the man known as Ben Jefferson was far from ordinary.

The role he'd chosen to play required subtlety, stealth and above all, an ability to remain in the shadows. Young though he was, Ben understood the definition of elusive - it was a difficult and yet heady thing, secrecy. He'd lost his boyhood illusions of honesty and truth long ago.

In what amounted to a blink of an eye, he'd discovered that his parents traveled the twisted paths of the covert, experiencing first hand the heavy consequences of a life burdened by intrigue.

Fraught with deception, his teenage years were lonely, teaching him to trust no one, to rely wholly on his own superior strengths and intellect - to endure.

In order to survive, 'Ben' manufactured his own distinctive, distorted, form of armor: a mix of integrity, honor and cynicism.

And then, he became a part of Stargate command.

Watching the interactions, the bonds forged amongst the elite group, he'd been thrown off balance.

A person who'd known true security, raised in a protected environment, would no doubt be at home in such surroundings. Unfortunately, Ben's newfound emotions confused him.

Especially troubling were his feelings of allegiance and deep respect for the focus of his assignment – General Jack O'Neill.

Torn between continuing his ruse and choosing to transform himself into his newly forged persona, he hesitated too long.

The bastards who'd originally engaged his 'talents' had grown impatient and in turn bowed to the Marquis' methods. Hoping his twisted mind would facilitate a swifter completion of their mission.

Now it would appear that the secret assembly behind GEOM would never achieve their nefarious goal.

Ben refused to indulge in self-recrimination. He had a decision to make and a difficult decision at that. It was interesting really, kind of like ripples in a stream after one threw in a pebble. Life had its little wrinkles. Sighing, Ben turned his car toward his altered destiny.

**_O_**

TBC in chapter eleven…**_Twisted Integrity_**


	11. Twisted Integrity

22

**Twisted Integrity**

**_The Candlestick Chronicles by Cjay_**

_**Chapter eleven.**_

Odd images of searing radiance and bizarre revelations whirled in the intermittent elements of a nebula, mesmerizing his hazy mind. Bottle rockets, scattered bits of memory, flashed briefly in the darkness, and then; faded into embers. Awareness flittered like a lazy butterfly from thought to thought, as he fought his way up from the yawning abyss of obscurity.

Familiar sounds assailed Jon's sensitive ears.

Puzzling out the shrill strains of monitors and murmured voices, he reasoned that he was once again a 'guest' in the infirmary and struggled to return to consciousness.

Unable to open his heavy-lidded eyes, he focused his full attention on the hushed voices nearby.

"Where do you want him, ma'am?" Rubber soled shoes squeaked against a freshly waxed floor.

"Let's slip Dr. Jackson into the bed beside Jon's."

Whispering sheets. "Easy corpsman."

Something substantial plopped against a thick soft surface, eliciting a slight moan from the bedsprings. "We'll need to keep a sharp eye on them both."

Kris Martin's rich, melodic, and deeply concerned assertion penetrated his confusion - confirming the notion that he, 'replica O'Neill,' was, as yet, still among the living. And, that something unpleasant had happened to Daniel. 'Crap!'

Desperate for an explanation, Jon repeated his attempt to pry open his weighty eyelids. His inert limbs twitched with effort, rustling the crisp linen encasing him.

Warm fingers skimmed his contrary flesh.

"It's all right, Jon. Try to relax. The anesthesia hasn't completely worn off yet." Kris permitted her questing fingers to gently encircle his cool right hand. "You're here with me, Kris Martin, inside the SGC post-op recovery room."

She smelled lightly of fresh soap and a hint of antiseptic. Capitulating briefly, he searched for an explanation.

Memories of numbness and desperation flooded his mind threatening to rob him of breath.

Sickness invaded his belly as he realized he'd taken a hit, hot blood oozing over his torso. Kearney's soothing words, his freckled face a mask of regret, pressing his big hands painfully against the wound as he took in Clare's sightless gaze staring up at the gathering dusk.

Sorrow gripped his carefully shielded heart, along with the dark recesses of implicit failure.

Surrendering to extraordinary and unfamiliar acceptance as calm washed over him and life slipped silently away.

Wait just a damn minute! If Kris was here at the base looking after him, what had happened to Jack?

Redoubling his effort, Jon forced his rebellious vocal chords to comply. "Jack…" His barely audible rasp increased his frustration.

Dabbing his dry lips with a wet cloth, Kris leaned close. Whispering furtively in his ear, she gripped his hand tighter. "It's all right, he's safe."

Anger gave his previously limp fingers strength. "Where…?"

"Shush...we'll have to discuss this later.'' Kris cast a furtive glance at the SF standing watch just outside the door.

Wincing, she eased her sore hand from his clenched fist. "Trust me, Jon."

Adjusting his blankets, Kris moved away.

Still unable to open his eyes, Jon fumed. 'Trust her? Ya sure you betcha!' Jon's mind shouted. 'Where the hell is Jack?'

'Hey kid, I'm fine. Stop yelling will ya?' Jack's petulant Minnesota inflections echoed in his clone's turbulent mind. 'Sheesh, the rabble at a hockey game makes less of a din!'

Licking at the beads of moisture on his lips, Jon's trepidation shifted focus. 'Jack?'

'What?' Gossamer threads of Jack's deepening annoyance floated freely into Jon's awareness. 'Look kid, your thoughts are popping into my brain, a touch too loudly, I might add.'

Uncertainty rustled in their shared perception. 'At least, I think that is what's happening here.'

'Popping?' Jon's psyche repeated skeptically.

'Popping, exploding, banging, bursting…' Jack recited derisively.

'I get the picture.' Jon's inner voice groused. 'Okay, so, what? We're connected?'

'Yep. Near as I can figure.' Jack's tone was amused.

'Look Jack, I've been your clone…for what, almost two years now? This is the first time we've, ah, shared our thoughts.' Jon was feeling queasy.

Beyond the skepticism and self-deprecation, biting wit induced a snort. 'I mean let's face it O'Neill, we spend a good deal of our time trying not to think!'

'Jeez, get a grip!' Jack scolded. 'Look, I've got a theory.'

Sensing Jack's hesitation, Jon mentally tapped his foot. 'And?'

'Ah…hell, this is cracked…' Embarrassment colored Jack's response.

'Why are you so uncomfortable?' Jon carped. 'I'm your mirror image remember? We share the same carefully **_hidden_** intellect.'

'Habit, I guess.' Jack muttered with sincerity. 'When I heard you were dying…'

'Who, me?' Jon's mind protested. 'I was dying?'

'Crap, just how much anesthesia did Carson give you anyway?' Jack interrupted. 'For crying out loud kid, would you just for one minute shut the hell up and concentrate?'

'Fine,' Jon mentally quirked his brow, 'You were saying…'

'Try to center. Bright lights, a feeling of overwhelming power...My life force merging with yours…sharing the vastness of creation was astounding.' Jack's mind coaxed.

'Okay O'Neill,' Jon's tone was indulgent. 'Let me guess? You've got another head injury.'

'Ack! Have we always been this dense? Try to focus will, ya?' Jack censored. 'We tapped into the knowledge of the Ancients and channeled our energies.'

'I thought we weren't going to mess around with that stuff anymore!' Jon snipped uncertainly.

Ignoring his duplicate, Jack continued, 'I could actually feel strength coursing through me as our wounds vanished! Well, yours did anyway; mine simply healed up a tad earlier than normal.'

Sighing, he added, 'Ya, for sure, got a few new scars to add to my collection.'

Full awareness burst Jon's burgeoning incredulity. 'Sweet.'

'Succinct as always, kid.' Jack praised smugly.

'Ah, Jack?' Jon's fully restored memory troubled him a bit. 'Exactly, where was I when all this miraculous healing occurred?'

'Oh, that.' Jack responded playfully. 'Well my fine clone, let's see… Just how might old Will Shakespeare illustrate?'

Cool sarcasm flooded Jack's wobbly reproduction of a stage whisper. 'Ah, that is the rub!'

Jon's stomach clenched with dread. 'I was in the OR…'

'Bingo!' Jack confirmed lightly. 'A fully staffed operating room, actually. '

'Great timing!' Jon grumbled. 'I suppose you had no choice.'

'None.' Jack confirmed softly. 'Couldn't drift in and watch you die.'

Sucking in a breath, Jon contemplated their predicament. 'So, what now?'

'Stick to our usual routine.' Jack replied confidently. 'Play big dumb soldier and let Carter and her league of scientists do the explaining.'

'Why not?' Jon mused. 'It's worked before.'

'Yep.' Jack preened.

Satisfied, Jon took a moment to enjoy their newfound closeness.

'Don't get used to it kid.' Jack warned. 'I figure, once we are both recovered… this ah, "mind-meld" will fade.'

'Ya think?' Disappointment colored Jon's quip.

'Yeah.' Jack responded regretfully. Their connection was strangely comforting – and spooky!

'Let's face it, this whole escapade is surreal!' Jon's inner voice concurred mutedly.

'Now get some sleep will ya, kid?' Jack added with irony. 'I'm not as young as I used to be.'

Jon settled back and let his awareness drift; secure in the knowledge that Jack's essence hovered nearby.

_ooo_

Kris dispatched the SF to find Dr. Carson. Then, returned to the bedside of the young man who was and wasn't her general.

Jon lay curled on his side snoring lightly. If only she could have known Jack O'Neill in his younger days, before covert ops and tragedy caused him to build a wall of protection around his heart. She supposed that Jon, as his reproduction, now had the opportunity to break down said wall. However, given his current condition, she suspected he hadn't.

Shaking her head with a tender smile, Kris returned her focus to Daniel's monitor readings wondering how the original O'Neill was faring.

A unit of whole blood slowly infused via a pump into Daniel's muscular left forearm. Kris traced the large vein away from the needle's insertion site, checking for infiltration. Jackson's pale skin was oddly soft to the touch, despite its fine pelt of dark blonde hairs. Under Teal'c and Jack's tutelage, the once spindly archeologist certainly had bulked up impressively, stimulating more than a few of the SGC's female population's interest. A combination of brains, good looks and muscle tended to do that.

_O_

Drained and exhausted, Dr. Brightman sipped coffee in her office. Given that her office door stood ajar, she easily overheard Kris and the SF's brief conversation. The departure of her unofficial guard gave the worn physician a boost of energy that caffeine consumption lacked.

Moving softly into the ward, Elizabeth hovered beside Jon's bed and marveled over the spectacular events surrounding his miraculous healing.

"He looks so very peaceful lying there." Fascinated, she reached out to lightly brush an errant tuft of hair off his unlined forehead. "You'd never guess that mere hours ago he was teetering on the brink of death."

Absorbed in her assessment of Daniel, Kris started. "Oh, Dr. Brightman, I didn't hear you come in."

Jon stirred slightly, burrowing his face more deeply into his pillow, but didn't wake.

Turning, Elizabeth shook herself mentally. Retrieving her stethoscope from her lab coat pocket, she placed it around her neck. "How's Dr. Jackson?"

"Vital signs are stable, but he hasn't come around yet." Kris matched Brightman's hushed tone.

"And, Jon O'Neill?" Brightman asked idly, pressing her stethoscope against Jackson's naked chest.

"He showed signs of waking a few minutes ago…" Kris began.

"Did he say anything?" Satisfied with Daniel's progress, Elizabeth stood up and rounded on Kris, her face intent.

"He fell asleep almost immediately." Kris hedged. Brightman's eyes shone with an almost fanatical interest. "Why?"

"You weren't there… you didn't see the miracle. This young man is special. He's been touched by grace." Elizabeth inhaled deeply, her small, refined nostrils flaring with effort.

Stepping away from Daniel's bedside, she pocketed her stethoscope and clasped her hands together. "You've been posted here for what, seven years at least? How much do you know about General O'Neill's nephew?"

Focusing her attention on Jon's sleeping form; Brightman's entire body seemed to vibrate with zeal. Her usually calm and serene countenance appeared enraptured.

"What do you mean?" Kris had the uneasy feeling the woman was about to burst into song. "Special how? What touched him?"

"Dr. Brightman has the peculiar notion that Jon O'Neill's recovery is the work of an Angel." Dr. Kyle Carson's cold and skeptical baritone interrupted.

Striding forcefully into the room, he thrust his body between Brightman and Jon's O'Neill's bed. "More than likely this is the work of the Asgard, or an ascended Ancient, I would've thought your brief tenure here at the SGC would influence your assessment of the situation in a more scientific way, Elizabeth."

The censure in his tone made Elizabeth wince. "I…whatever being or energy force assisted us in that operating room was no alien, Kyle. Nothing you can say will convince me of that."

Brightman stared up into his disapproving eyes. "However, I am open to the possibility that someone or something other than providence intervened."

"Would one of you please tell me what this is all about?" Kris demanded worriedly. This was so unlike the generally introverted and sensible Brightman's normal behavior. "I think I've been more than patient. You asked me to defer my questions until Jon woke up and like a good little captain, I have. BUT! As his nurse and the late General O'Neill's friend, I think I have a right to know what the hell is going on here."

"Ah, I second that request." Daniel Jackson interjected shakily. Squinting against the harsh infirmary lighting, he made an unsuccessful attempt to raise his head. "What exactly has happened to Jon?"

Kris rushed to his side; gently pushing his unsteady shoulders back against his pillow and settled his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. "Take it easy Daniel you're in no condition…"

"I've been in this situation a time or two and you know it." Daniel protested using his patented equitable professor tone. "So I'll be a good boy and just lie here, while you all explain what I just overheard."

"Captain Martin is right, you are in no condition." Carson told him firmly.

"Fine." Daniel barked stubbornly. Shoving weakly at his bed linens, he grabbed Kris's arm. "Help me up, Kris."

Fearing the stubborn archeologist would tear open the fine sutures he and Brightman had so recently used to close his wounds, Carson surrendered. "All right, Jackson, you win."

Expelling a harsh sigh, he pulled a chair up at the foot of Daniel's bed and indicated that Kris should have a seat. Over the next several minutes, he explained Jon's condition on arrival and the bizarre events that occurred in the operating suite.

Daniel listened quietly, his face expressionless, while Kris requested a medical clarification or two.

Objecting to Carson's clinical and matter of fact tone of voice, Dr. Brightman interrupted him frequently. Her additional emphatic commentary gave the unfolding events a unique spin. "I've seen footage of your transformation into an ascended being Dr. Jackson and trust me, the radiant energy force in that OR was nothing like it! Nor, did it resemble Thor's unique way of appearing. It was much more…celestial!"

Daniel Jackson, explorer and former ascended being, was not about to dispute her.

Pinching the bridge of his nose with a shaky hand, he wished he could have witnessed Jon's 'resurrection' himself. "Okay, so did either of you have a look at the security tapes?"

"Typically, Major Davis ordered them sealed for the time being." Carson replied arching an ironic brow. "Military types! They tend to close the barn door after the horses have run loose."

"He's planning on interviewing each of the personnel involved in Jon O'Neill's care." Brightman added. "I've already submitted my report."

"Ah, yes, the 'Angel' theory." Carson bit out. "Elizabeth, you're bucking for a section eight!"

"Kyle, as you so kindly pointed out," Elizabeth continued sardonically, "exposure to the wonderful world of the SGC has taught me not to dismiss any option."

"I just wish your so-called 'Angel' would've done the same for Jack." Daniel mumbled pensively.

_O_

'Oh, he did, Danny boy, he did.' Feigning sleep, Jon O'Neill suppressed a smile. 'Angel, eh? Ya, for sure, a fallen angel! So…"Angel" O'Neill, what now?'

When Jack failed to respond, he repeated his snide inquiry expectantly.

Jack remained oddly silent.

'Jack? Hey, wake up, will ya?' An arctic splinter of alarm ran up Jon's spine.

'Simmer down, kid. I'm trying to think.' Jack grumbled peevishly. 'Dang! My head is killing me.'

Jon searched Jack's mind. 'Excuse me, Yoda. I thought we tapped into the almighty "Force"?'

The words skull fracture jumped out at him. 'Why the hell didn't your fracture heal?'

'I was busy centering on your life-threatening dents and dings, guess I…crap…I don't know!' Jack's pain seemed to escalate with concentration. 'Just let me suffer in peace for awhile, will ya?'

Centering, Jon's agile mind was able to connect with the source of Jack's torment. Crap, he'd sustained one heck of a "dent!"

Clearly, Jack had selflessly focused the majority of their newfound mutual power on saving his younger copy, allowing only a minimal amount to be wasted on mending his own injuries.

Jon's sense of justice and life-long habit of guilt prodded him. Drawing inward, he sought the portion of his brain that housed the information he needed. Ah, ha! Hey, this whole healing thing wasn't that complex! Given the lowdown, and a smidgeon of genetic predisposition, even a rough warrior such as himself could employ the delicate and precise art of healing. However, another visitation from O'Neill's angel needed to be timed just right. Allowing Jack to rest, Jon bided his time.

Kris tolerated Brightman and Carson's argument for several minutes. And then, completely lost her temper. "Ahem, pardon me, sirs!"

The duo stopped snipping. Three heads swiveled her way. "Both Jon O'Neill and Dr. Jackson, need their rest." She stated simply.

Flushing, Elizabeth Brightman nodded.

Mid-tirade, Dr. Kyle Carson offered a quelling look. "Thank you Captain. Dr. Brightman, perhaps we should continue our conversation in private." Spinning on his heels, he stalked out.

"The captain is correct Dr. Jackson. I think you should try to sleep now." Trailing Carson, Brightman's stance was both apologetic and defiant. "Please alert me when Jon wakes, Kris."

"Understood, ma'am." Kris responded in crisp military fashion. Adjusting Daniel's bedding, she rechecked his monitors and fluids. "I'm going to step into the next room and gather a few supplies, all right?"

"Sure." Daniel responded absently, his inquiring mind was already busy trying to absorb all that he'd just learned. Closing his eyes, he floated on adrenaline for a time, until sleep and residual anesthesia claimed him.

Jon shifted languidly, his eyelids mere slits as he gauged Daniel's alertness.

Daniel wheezed softly, his breathing remaining rhythmic and even.

Scanning the room furtively, Jon confirmed that they were its lone occupants. Lying back, he calmed his breathing seeking to traverse the lower regions of consciousness. Familiar with the Jaffa art of meditation, Kel'no'reem, he used the beeping monitor as his mantra, steadily lowering his heart rate.

Gradually, he became aware of a widespread tingling sensation in his limbs as warmth spread outward from his inner-self.

Jon O'Neill began to glow. As the light he emitted increased in intensity, his slender form levitated just above his bed.

Miles away, Jack's besieged body responded in kind. Allowing the kid to take the lead, they fused their life forces together seeking physical perfection on a cellular level.

Whining, Mischief jumped to the floor and loped off to find her master.

In the wake of incandescence, Jack's pain fled.

_O_

"I understand how it is you might have thought Kris was somehow involved in something shady, Draymak." Jeff pushed back his plate, his appetite for food sated. "What I still don't get is exactly how a pilot got involved in this intriguing affair, and precisely why anyone would want to kidnap a United Sates Air Force general and his teenage nephew!"

"Well, you could say the general is directly responsible…" Mischief's agitated arrival interrupted Karl Draymak's account.

The little sheltie jumped up. Pawing at Jeff's sleeve, she barked urgently and then spun in a circle. As Jeff made to follow her, she took off back toward the general's room, barking all the way.

Unsure what it was that had disturbed the little dog so, Karl scooped up the shotgun resting idly against a wall. Fumbling with his damaged left hand, he checked to see that it was loaded, and followed Prost.

Blinding light poured forth from the open portal of the general's room; illumination lit up the hallway like fireworks on a hot summer night.

Mischief plunged into the brightness. Standing just inside the entrance, she continued to sound the alarm. "Hush, girl!" Jeff commanded, hesitating beside her.

Shielding his eyes with his hand, Jeff peered inside and gulped. "Oh my God."

Pushing past the stunned doctor, Karl stormed into the room, just in time to observe the general's floating, shimmering form slowly descend and come to rest serenely upon the mattress of his sickbed.

"Um, Karl, I think…I think…we've just uncovered the reason behind a plot to ensnare the general and his kin." Jeff speculated with a stammer of amazement.

"Hot damn, Doc, you've got one hell of a gift for understatement." Karl expounded nimbly. Resting the shotgun on a nearby table, he eyed Jeff intently. "I am not sure what the hell I just saw, but one thing is for sure, now more than ever, we cannot let this man…that is, the general or anyone even remotely related to him, fall into enemy hands."

"Hoo-yah, major." Jeff snapped unconsciously into military stance. The light of battle readiness shone in his still recovering eyes. "Once I check the general out, perhaps we should see if we can gather a bit more intel on this ah…situation."

"Old habits can be very useful, eh Prost?" Cocking his head to one side, Karl slapped the game physician, and ex-major, on the back.

"I suspect the general will be more than happy to fill us in." Draymak arched an ironic brow, making eye contact with O'Neill over the slightly shorter man's shoulder. "Right, General O'Neill, sir?

_ooo_

Miles Pendleton, Vice President of acquisitions for GEOM, snatched the telephone handset away from his incompetent personal assistant. "Jefferson, what the hell…"

"Now, now, is that any way to greet an old friend, Miles? I thought you'd be happy to have a chat with me. Besides, I seem to recall that your doctor warned you about anger management and your high blood pressure." Ben instructed lightly.

Jefferson's fingers flew over the computer keyboard. Shifting gears, he adjusted the volume on his speakerphone. "Are you aware of the monumental chaos caused by your dimwitted decision to involve that sadistic bastard the Marquis in **_my_** operation?" He demanded harshly.

Pendleton had the good sense to swallow an angry retort. "I'll admit; Wellington's methods have had less than satisfactory results. However, he has assured me that the younger of the specimens will be shipped to our laboratory within the week."

"Really?" Ben replied benignly. "How impressive. Especially given the fact that said specimen is currently suffering from a gunshot wound and fighting for its life."

"What?" Pendleton bellowed. "You must be mistaken."

"I suggest you contact your sources and verify my information." Ben continued in a reasonable tone. "I'll be on my cell. Oh, and Miles? No monkey business, I've arranged for full disclosure of your firm's, shall we call them, 'business dealings'…should anything untoward happen to me."

Smirking with self-satisfaction, Ben severed the connection. He'd already tapped Pendleton's phone and invaded his computer connections. Now, all he had to do was sit back and wait, while good old shortsighted Miles led him directly to the Marquis and Hailey.

Humming the theme from 'The Simpsons', he wondered wryly if the ghost of late General Jack O'Neill had somehow possessed him.

_ooo_

Kearney looked up from his laptop as Teal'c glided silently through his open office door and carefully placed a security video on the edge of his desk. "Did the little weasel talk?"

Folding his hands behind his broad back, the solid Jaffa smiled forbiddingly. "I believe O'Neill would say he produced the melody of a small yellow finch."

'Melody of a small yellow finch?' Mystified, Kearney thought the reference over. "Oh, you mean, he sang like a canary!"

Blinking languidly, Teal'c nodded briefly and arched a brow. "I believe that is what I said, Major Kearney."

Biting his lip, hoping to conceal his laugh, the major closed his laptop and sipped his coffee. "Who is he working for?"

"The CIA." Teal'c replied shortly.

Coffee spattered over the major's desk as he choked.

Teal'c quickly moved beside the sputtering officer and heartily slapped him on the back. "Do you require medical assistance, Major Kearney?"

Pulling in a strangled breath, Kearney wiped at his watering eyes. "I'm okay, just give me a minute."

"I shall give you several." Assuming the seat next to the major's desk, Teal'c continued to watch the officer closely.

Once he'd cleared the hot fluid from his trachea, Kearney recovered quickly. "Why would the CIA plant an operative inside our ranks? General O'Neill has been cooperating fully with their liaison for months now."

"According to Airman Trent Stokes, he was assigned the task of protecting both the general and Jon O'Neill by the Secretary of Defense. In order to accomplish his task, he chose to eliminate any possible threat. Jon O'Neill's injury was unintentional." Teal'c's disapproval rang clearly.

"He's touting the friendly fire defense." Kearney snorted. "How then, does he conscience shooting at me?"

"He claims trepidation and adrenaline clouded his judgment." Teal'c responded with a sneer. "This, I do not believe."

Kearney silently concurred. It was highly unlikely that a trained CIA operative would make that kind of mistake. "Guess the O'Neill's aren't the only ones with enemies."

This was one hell of a revelation. Stokes had been a valued member of the SGC security staff for over a year.

"Perhaps." Teal'c agreed. "However, I believe once he injured Jon O'Neill, Airman Stokes sought to add to his defense of panic under fire by narrowly missing you."

"Does he have any idea who or what, Jon really is?" Concern colored the major's voice.

"The man is canny, but I believe he would have revealed such knowledge to me." Teal'c replied thoughtfully. Adding with a feral grin, "It would appear he does not."

"We need to report this information to Major Davis." Kearney's nostrils flared with distaste. "I assume he'll request clarification from both the Pentagon and the President."

Tilting his jaw, Teal'c heard the aversion in the major's tone. "Major Davis held O'Neill in high regard. I believe he will be most disturbed by this information."

Releasing a breath, Kearney refrained from comment. Diverting from the matter, his blue eyes searched his desk. "Apparently, the syringe Sheriff Dalton found near the site of Hailey's abduction contained a powerful veterinary tranquilizer." Picking up a thin brown folder, he thrust it across the desk toward Teal'c. "According to our pharmaceutical tech, the dosage was strong enough to take down an elephant."

Scanning the document, Teal'c frowned. "I see."

"Given the lieutenant's small stature and body weight, it's quite possible that dose killed her outright." Kearney continued bleakly.

Hailey was a tough little thing, but he imagined even soaking wet she weighed no more than ninety pounds. "I've requested a head count of the on-duty personnel and ordered all those off-duty members to return to the base immediately. If there is another mole as Dr. Jackson insinuated, one involved in Hailey's abduction, it's highly doubtful that he or she will comply."

"I concur." Teal'c growled; his blood ran hotter with each passing moment. "Major Kearney, should we uncover another rodent in our midst, I give you fair warning: I shall endeavor to destroy it."

Kearney studied the big man, gauging his resolve. Teal'c was deadly serious. Must be the Jaffa revenge thing General O'Neill mentioned with both respect and pride on several occasions. Surmising that a debate on the matter would be quite futile, the major ducked his head and cleared his throat with a noncommittal grunt.

"If you have no further need of my assistance, Major Kearney, I will adjourn to the infirmary." Rising, Teal'c ducked his head slightly. "I wish to inquire as to the health of Daniel Jackson and young O'Neill."

"Understood." Kearney fingered the cassette tape. Slipping it into a video player, he pressed play. "Oh, and Teal'c…I'm grateful for your…ah, restraint."

Bowing with great dignity, Teal'c smiled sardonically and left the room.

Grimfaced and frazzled, Kearney contemplated the implications revealed on the tape, knowing full well he'd need to balance diplomacy with proper military phraseology in his report to Major Davis.

Disturbed, the disillusioned security chief wondered just what other nifty little surprises the 'O'Neill situation' would reveal next.

**_ooo_**

Two a.m. The chime of the old clock penetrated the room's somnolent gloom, striking the hour.

Damien Wellington, alias the infamous Marquis, stared coldly into the darkness, his twisted mind filled with nefarious machinations; and strangely, a tiny tremor of grief.

Clare was dead. There could be no other explanation. Else, she would have made contact by now. How very odd that he should feel the loss. She was after all, an insignificant plaything. Still, on so many levels dear little Clare satisfied a hunger to which he rarely admitted.

Quite obvious also, was the elimination of the two dedicated men he'd sent to retrieve the boy and his beloved Clare. It could be the only explanation; his people never failed to meet their obligations. The lad was well protected, it would seem. No doubt the death of his uncle had precipitated closer scrutiny.

How very fortunate he'd approached his problem from several angles. Ensnaring the young female lieutenant proved to be a dash more difficult than anticipated. One of his men sported a broken nose and the other, thanks to the valiant, but ineffective Jackson, a shattered wrist. Ah, well, weak-minded henchmen were plentiful and easily replaced.

Flexing his long fingered hands, the Marquis's fluid and cruel mind provided distraction from his twinge of pain. Gleefully, he considered the various methods of retribution he'd wreak on the toothsome lieutenant's nubile body.

The strident jangle of the phone roused the vile faux aristocrat from his sinister muse. Flipping on a small lamp, he noted the number displayed on the caller identification mechanism and muttered a curse. Allowing the phone to ring several more times, he mustered a crumb of tolerance for the mindless fool representing his current employer. Finally seizing the handset, he purred. "Pendleton, to what do I owe this late honor?"

"Wellington, does the phrase 'royally screwed' ring a bell?"

_ooo_

Ben Jefferson boldly drove his flashy vintage Mustang convertible through the first security check with a sociable smile. "Hiya Metcalf, how's the wife? I see Kearney has doubled the number of men on the gate."

Gunnery Sergeant Metcalf scrutinized the airman's identification without returning a pleasantry. Frowning, he recognized Jefferson. Returning Ben's wallet, he brusquely waved him through the checkpoint.

Ben sighed, pocketed the case and shifted into first. 'Jarheads can be downright unfriendly at times.'

He supposed that stealing back inside the SGC unnoticed would have proven more difficult than slipping out. Still, given that the moon was shrouded by thick cloud cover it was full dark and, he reasoned, he could have safely maneuvered back by way of his exit point. However, if Ben wanted to avoid suspicion and blend in amongst those considered loyal it was imperative that he gain reentry via the main gate.

Kearney's recall gave him a clear excuse for reporting at 0400 hours, as long as no one questioned him about his departure the evening before. Providentially, he was the man in charge of filing the rosters for those entering and leaving the mountain, hence covering his tracks shouldn't be too tricky. He'd casually add his name to a previously 'misplaced' sign-out sheet; take the heat for the oversight and none would be the wiser.

The men stationed inside the complex were far friendlier in their greeting. Before long, Ben was slinking along the last corridor toward his base quarters wearing a smug grin. Unfortunately, his hitherto smooth strategy hit an unwelcome snag in the form of a bleary eyed Colonel Samantha Carter.

Stumbling into a solid body, Sam spilled her much needed black coffee with an oath of irritation. Looking up through her fog of fatigue, she acknowledged the airman as a member of the security staff, but his markedly relaxed body language coupled with an all too shrewd look, gave her the uneasy feeling that he was up to no good.

Jefferson craftily noted her suspicion, adjusting his plans accordingly. "Colonel, you and I need to have a talk."_O_

Daylight broke above the mountains casting splinters of ruddy light over the landscape. A light breeze rustled through the trees and shrubs nearby, scattering a hint of nature's perfume into the cool air.

Early rising birds chirped and chattered, as they gathered in the boughs of the large pines in the backwoods.

Dozing on the front porch of the rustic clinic, Jack sprawled lazily in a hammock, his elegant yet deadly, fingers entwined cozily in the warm fur of his little guardian, Mischief. Prost's handgun nestled comfortingly against his flesh, tucked securely in the waistband of his borrowed scrubs.

Years of pre-battle calm trained old campaigners like him to relish stolen moments of peace such as these.

Following a lengthy discussion and planning session with the doctor and Draymak, the emptiness of night had, as usual, been filled with unwelcome memories and self-doubt.

Using his considerable gift for stealth, he and his diminutive companion had stolen out onto the wide wooden porch seeking the soothing balm of the natural world.

As with many a dawn before, and he speculated, after, Jack allowed his mind to drift and briefly enjoy the promise of a new day.

Still connected by thought to his younger counterpart, he was aware of Jon's similar attitude, each gathering their reserves for the coming battle; their possible personal apocalypse.

A faint smile traced his rugged lips as the little dog snuggled in closer, her wet nose poking him sweetly in the ribs. A similar curving of lips echoed on the face of his mirror image miles away.

Grateful for unquestioning friendship, clone and original continued to savor the serenity of break of day.

_O_

_TBC in chapter twelve….Hell Hath No Fury._


	12. Hell Hath No Fury

Hell Hath No Fury.

The Candlestick Chronicles by Cjay Chapter twelve

Ben Jefferson shifted gears, easing the unmarked van off the two-lane highway and onto a secondary artery that was little more than an access road, heading for a crumbling Victorian style house. The winding dirt pathway was steep and peppered with potholes; making rapid travel next to impossible. No matter, Wellington could wait.

Trussed up and lying haphazardly in the back of the banged up Chevy van, Sassy O'Connor stifled another groan as the vehicle lurched from side to side, causing the thick duck tape wrapped securely around her fragile wrists to chafe. Blindfolded, with her arms behind her, she was having difficulty controlling her rising trepidation and its accompanying nausea.

Swerving to avoid a particularly large mud filled indentation; Jefferson's keen eyes scanned the building's perimeter, ignoring her muffled moans. He counted at least one man, sniper rifle poised at the ready, stationed behind a leaded glass window high up on the third floor of the once majestic old ruin. And, it was a safe bet that Wellington had at least two or three more hired guns concealed inside the various outbuildings.

From the look of things this had once been a thriving ranch or farm. Besides the main house, he noted what appeared to be a shed, a barn and, Ben thought wryly, a small structure that looked suspiciously like an outhouse.

Despite a carefully preserved appearance of neglect, fresh electrical and phone lines had been carefully strung along several enormous pines, high enough for the average eye to dismiss. Ben wondered what other modern goodies Wellington had installed to facilitate his comfort.

Jefferson made the last turn in the road and the Marquis himself ventured out onto the gray veranda to greet him. Wearing a smile that failed to add any semblance of warmth to his thin face or his deadly eyes, he stood silently awaiting his latest acquisition.

Jefferson exited the still swaying vehicle. Tossing an arrogant grin Damien's way and called sarcastically. "Nice place you got here, Wellington." "It serves its purpose." Wellington shrugged with indifference. "I understand you've brought a guest."

"Yeah, the old bat's right back here." Flinging open the van's wide rear doors, Ben climbed inside and roughly dragged the bound woman to her feet. Picking Sassy up, he swung her out and onto the uneven ground. Keeping one restraining hand clamped on her shoulder, he gracefully jumped down beside his captive.

"Ouch! Unhand me you brutish lout!" Confident that if she were able to see she'd give his arrogant shins a good kick, Sassy concentrated on regaining her balance.

"Shut your cake hole I've had enough of your carping!" Grabbing her by the arm, Ben hustled the elderly woman up the steps. "I should have gagged you as soon as I had the chance."

"Now Benjamin, is that any way to treat a lady?" Wellington purred. Reaching out, he delicately eased the blindfold away from the woman's face, looking her over with exaggerated concern.

"Lady?" Ben snorted. "Don't let her appearance fool you, she swears like an old salt!"

"Really?" Wellington countered intrigued. "How droll."

Standing erect and unafraid before him was a woman of indeterminable age. Dressed in a rather fussy pale pink pantsuit and loose fitting matching silk blouse, liberally creased and soiled with grim, her once perfectly coiffed snow white hair stood out in tangles and tuffs. Smudges of dirt and a large bruise on her left temple marred the elegant lady's otherwise relatively unlined creamy patrician skin, lending an air of aristocratic dignity and grace to her otherwise unremarkable person. Damien found her arresting. "Welcome to my humble abode, dear Mrs. O'Connor."

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure, who are you?" Fluttering her watering eyes against the blinding early morning light, Sassy licked her lips. "Oh dear, I'm afraid I am going to be sick."

With that, she promptly threw up her meager breakfast spattering Wellington's freshly pressed trousers and shiny shoes.

Startled, Ben retrieved a rumpled handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the Marquis with a grin. "Perhaps, we should show the 'lady' to her room?"

"Oh my, I am sorry." Sassy mumbled feigning sincerity, trying to ignore the debris lingering on her chin. "My constitution isn't what it once was."

"Apparently." Disgusted, Damien eyed Jefferson with disdain and stepped away from the small pool of vomit.

"Arturo!" He bellowed.

A short burly man scrambled hastily out onto the porch. Taking in the condition of Wellington's once impeccable attire, he frowned.

"Arturo, please escort…Mrs. O'Connor to her room." Wellington hissed. "And then, clean up this mess."

Sassy swayed, rocking back slightly. "Oh dear, I am feeling decidedly unsteady."

Arturo's beady black eyes skittered over his master's face like a whipped terrier seeking confirmation. Following a curt nod from Wellington, he carefully removed the tape from Sassy's wrists. Allowing her to lean heavily on him, the little man led her inside the front door.

Once they were inside the main hall, a tall badly scarred man fell into step beside the pair.

Producing a small bottle of water and a thick fold of cloth, Arturo pressed them into Sassy's shaking hands. "Here."

Sassy took a long grateful drink. Then moistening the cloth, she scrubbed at her soiled chin. "Thank you, gentlemen."

Arturo took the cloth and near-empty bottle from her without comment.

The scarred man merely scowled. Poking her spine with the barrel of his ugly looking handgun, he herded her toward a shadowy descending rear stairwell.

Balking, Sassy stopped short. "The cellar? You are taking me into the cellar?"

The scarred man grasped her left arm. Firmly twisting it up behind her back, he forced her none too gently down the rickety stairs.

Preceding them, Arturo drew a large key from his pocket and unlocked the heavy cellar door, pushing it open with a loud creak.

Turning, he kindly took Sassy's other arm, taking note of her distressed face. "There is no need to be cruel to the woman, Marcel." He admonished.

"Dilettante." Marcel released his hold with a snort, returning whence he came.

"Barbarian!" Arturo rounded with a sneer.

Lightly prodding Sassy into the dark room, he lit a dirt encrusted hurricane lantern. Then, turning his back with a barely perceptible sigh of regret, he slammed the heavy door, securing it behind him.

Grateful for the weak pool of light, Sassy rubbed her aching shoulder and took in her luxury accommodations.

It was damp and cold. And, judging by the mold on the fieldstone walls, this underground room was less than watertight. The damp air was heavily scented with the pungent smell of decay. A small old iron bedstead rested against one wall, scantily covered by several threadbare blankets and moth eaten gray pillow.

Rotating slowly, still mindful of her restless stomach, Sassy spotted an ancient cracked sink against a second wall, water dripped steadily from its rusted faucet. Next to that, a dented galvanized bucket, filled with rags, was tipped onto one side.

Off in the shadows, almost hidden by an old steamer trunk, she spied what appeared to be a larger pile of rags.

Squinting, Sassy shuffled closer and gasped. The battered and limp body of Lieutenant Jennifer Hailey lay sprawled out on the filthy, dank floor. "Jennifer!"

Anger caused a surge of warming adrenalin to course through Sassy's aged veins.

Kneeling stiffly beside the fallen lieutenant, she ran tender hands over the poor child's chilled flesh. Resting questing fingers against Jennifer's neck, she detected a steady thrill and released a prayer of gratitude. "Thank the good lord."

Grabbing one of the ratty blankets from the bed, the savvy senior rolled Jennifer inside. Placing the pillow under the limp girl's head, she grabbed the questionably sturdy edges of the linen and pulled. Happily, her tactic worked and she was able to drag the inert Hailey across the floor.

Leaning her back against the iron bedstead for support, she hoisted Jennifer into a sitting position. Summoning her rage and praying for strength, Sassy pulled Hailey's petite form into her chest and up onto the bed.

Panting with effort, she wrapped her now sweating bulk around the cooler body of the younger woman, hoping to instill some much needed warmth.

Momentarily drained, the feisty and indomitable Sassy contemplated her next move. oo

Jon O'Neill burrowed his face deeper into the pillow. He'd been floating peacefully along the outer vestiges of tranquility, when something disturbed his state of bliss. Careful to keep his eyes shut, his body restful and his breathing even, he waited.

Creeping along his consciousness, tickling at his sixth sense, was the definite and uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. It wasn't Kris Martin, their nurse. She'd gone off duty leaving a noisy corpsman in her wake, cautioning him to allow the 'boys' to sleep undisturbed.

Nearby, Danny's regular and faintly wheezing respirations mixed in with the usual beeps and hums associated with an infirmary.

Nothing moved. Yet, something taunted him.

An added whirr, a slight bang and a soft whish followed by a sudden light breeze announced the ventilation system's presence. The stale scent of recycled air, mixed with those peculiar and funky smells any infirmary offered, assailed his nostrils – alcohol, strong soap, clean sheets, a trace of the sickening smell of spilt blood on wet gauze, and something more. What was it?

Tropical pools, a hint of Mimosa and the heady aroma of gardenias; ah, perfume, a woman. Somewhere deep in his belly a burst of pleasure lit a sensual fire of attraction. Oh yeah, definitely a woman, one who enjoyed announcing her femininity and apparently found him fascinating for some reason. Strangely, he found the idea far from unpleasant.

Crap, it had been a good while since his hormones had run amok like this. This primal sensation wasn't a new one. He'd garnered the attentions of more than a few females in his time, but generally this feeling of unleashed animal lust came along after he'd at least been introduced.

'Jeez kid, will you open your peepers and take a look-see, I mean don't you wanna know who it is that has your hormones shifting into overdrive?' Jack's disembodied voice sounded hoarse and irritated. 'This whole being connected thing is damned inconvenient…you aren't the only one whose feeling a tad stimulated here, ya know.'

'Can I help it if that damned Asgard zapped me into an adolescent body?' Jon's mind whispered back mildly discomfited. 'Dang, I thought you were still asleep.'

'A sudden surge of testosterone tends to get me up, if you know what I mean.' Jack snapped back wryly.

'I'd a thought being around Carter so much would've kept you in a perpetual state of, shall we call it, preparation?' Jon volleyed mischievously.

'Generally speaking, ah, no. Regulations work better than a hefty dose of saltpeter on the old libido.' Jack mumbled in kind.

'Weak pun, Jack, very weak.' Jon groaned.

'Hey, it's kinda hard to be witty when my expectations are raised.' Jack retorted caustically. 'Now open your damned eyes, will ya?'

Jon moaned, fluttering his lids. 'Fine, just save me from the punditry!' Pulling his pillow into his arms, he drew one knee up; making sure his involuntary interest was masked, and cracked an eyelid.

Dr. Elizabeth Brightman's zealous and all too intense gaze proved to be more effective in returning his contrary flesh to a more relaxed state than a bucket of ice water. Jack's loud unintentional harrumph of surprise confirmed that her fervor had transmitted to his counterpart and cooled his ardor as well.

Nonplussed, Jon frowned and returned the woman's stare.

"I…" Brightman's small pink tongue darted nervously along her lower lip. Seemingly enraptured, her eyes dilated and widened. "Was it an Angel?"

"What?" Jon rubbed at his eyes sleepily. 'That a boy, kid.' Jack coached proudly. 'Remember, big dumb soldier routine…who, what and where.'

'Yeah, right Jack, that so worked with Draymak and Prost didn't it.' Jon's mind snorted. 'Seems to me, you dealt the need to know card there, didn't ya?'

'Hey, it worked didn't it?' Jack's psyche argued. 'Just stick to the plan…and be yourself. You know…dense, thick, obtuse, dim…'

'You mean, just channel you, right?' Jon lobbed mentality.

'Exactly!' Jack's consciousness chortled with relish.

"I asked if you'd been healed by an Angel, Jon." Brightman repeated.

"What?" Jon answered blankly.

Strange, for a moment there he sounded just like the general! Bewildered, Brightman tried another approach. "Jon, do you remember the last twenty-four hours?"

"I'm not sure…I…" Jon's unlined and beardless face reflected disorientation. "I was at Uncle Jack's funeral and…"

Looking down at the pillow clutched in his hands, he ventured. "I guess I took a nap?"

Hearing her responding gasp of impatience, Jon wrinkled his brow in consternation. "Exactly where am I?"

Disappointment flooded Brightman's cheeks. "You were shot, Jon. A team of medics brought you here for treatment. Jon, we almost lost you…"

"Okay." Jon agreed skeptically. Allowing his gaze to travel over his unscathed body, he arched his brows with disbelief. "And?"

"Some form of celestial being or entity, I prefer the term Angel, appeared and healed you." Elizabeth explained, ignoring his look of incredulity.

"A… celestial being..." Jon repeated doubtfully. "Or Angel?"

"I thought we'd agreed you'd forget all this nonsense about an Angel, Doctor Brightman." Carson demanded harshly, marching forward into the room.

"Dammit, Elizabeth!" Coming to rest beside his errant associate, he hissed with disgust. "When the corpsman informed me you'd relieved him for coffee, I suspected something like this!"

Taking in the lad's baffled expression, he adjusted his tone. "Hello, there Jon, I'm Dr. Carson. I knew your Uncle Jack very well. I'm sorry for your loss."

Jon narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Jack's voice echoed inside his head, filling him in on the new doctor's credentials. "Thanks, Uncle Jack mentioned you once…he called you, Kit."

"That's right." Carson beamed. "He said I reminded him of that crusty old western legend. Called me sagacious…I had to look that one up."

"The general had a singularly canny ability to peg people." Carson eyed Jon pensively. "The man was a whole lot more intelligent then he liked people to believe."

Nodding sadly, Jon dropped his eyes and fiddled with his blankets. "So…ah, according to the doc here, I'm a very lucky Irishman."

"That's right. Recall anything else?" Carson questioned carefully.

Shrugging, Jon looked up. His youthful face crumbled with grief, lower lip trembling slightly as his deep brown eyes filled with tears. "Uncle Jack…died." He whispered mournfully.

"Is that all you remember, Jon?" Elizabeth asked sympathetically. "Nothing else?"

"What else matters, ma'am?" Jon asked brokenly closing his eyes and slumping back against the bed.

Covering his face with his hands, he whispered. "He's gone and I…well, I'm alone." "I see." Heartbroken and defeated, Elizabeth Brightman surrendered, the boy's grief replacing her fanatic quest for an answer with compassion.

"I…guess I was mistaken." Rising, she pressed a fist to her mouth and rushed from the room.

"I'll just…step out and give you a few minutes." Uncomfortable, Carson patted Jon's arm and trailed after his misguided colleague.

'Sheesh, kid who knew?' Jack's essence quipped admiringly. 'Think you just earned an Oscar, category: best actor in a drama.'

'Don't sell yourself short there O'Neill…when we found you…" Jon's emotions overwhelmed his usual caginess. 'I was…crap Jack, you looked like hell!'

'Yeah…well…' Jack conceded clumsily. 'Back at ya, kid.'

"You're not alone, Jon." Daniel's voice was filled with sorrowful affection. "I know what we did… We should have never just walked away like that."

"Danny…" Jon began uncomfortably.

"No, Jon. I've wanted to say this ever since this whole mess started." Daniel continued urgently. "We were wrong and I'm sorry."

Throwing back the covers, Jon padded barefoot over to Daniel's bed, offering a crooked grin. "No worries there space monkey, we got no problems you and me. You all did what you had to do, just like Jack."

Jon's deep brown eyes conveyed a wisdom and understanding that belied his naïve countenance. "Okay?"

Daniel's troubled visage cleared somewhat, his face mirrored Jon's crooked smile. "Okay."

"Good. The subject is closed." Jon cleared his throat and sat down on the edge of Danny's bed.

Releasing a long breath, his brows rose and fell with acceptance. "I assume you know all about my latest little brush with the grim reaper?"

"Huh?" Daniel was thrown for a moment. "Oh that, I overheard them talking earlier and insisted they fill me in. Brightman's 'Angel theory' took me by surprise. Guess she's more religious than I'd have thought."

"I got that." Jon snorted sarcastically.

Ignoring the typical O'Neill biting wit, Daniel continued, "I assume your, ah, 'phenomenal rejuvenation' was due to some kind of residual talent left over from that Ancient download."

"Let's leave it at that, shall we?" Jon agreed smugly.

Sobering, Daniel went on. "I'm more concerned, and frankly annoyed, with the reason behind your injuries, namely your tactics."

Jon carefully schooled his face, feigning confusion. "Tactics?"

Shifting his injured leg with a grimace of pain, Daniel pondered Jon's deceptively innocent expression. "I've gotta say that Jack would've been damned proud of your underhanded activities. I suppose, given that you are an O'Neill, we should have expected it."

Daniel hesitated poignantly, and then continued with infinite sadness. "Guess I just never really thought we'd ever lose him. I mean how many times has he cheated death? I know he missed the excitement of going off-world, but to be honest, I figured riding a desk would keep him alive…"

'Judas Priest! Put him out of his misery will ya, kid. He's killing me here!' Jack begged gruffly via their connection.

"Ah, Daniel?" Jon interrupted tightly.

Halting mid-sentence, Daniel narrowed his eyes with trepidation. Despite the fact that Jon's voice cracked adolescently, he knew that particular tone all too well. Pursing his lips, he lowered his chin and offered Jon a sidelong look of expectant disquiet. "Yes, Jon?"

Clearing his throat, Jon arched one brow; his eyes skittered back and forth between Daniel's earnest face and his hands, then back again. Plucking a stray medical instrument off the bedside table, he toyed with it absently.

"About, Jack…" He began sheepishly.

oo

Jefferson leaned casually against the faded wood of the old home's exterior wall, waiting tolerantly for the fastidious Wellington to change out of the trousers Sassy had so recently, and quite brilliantly, soiled. Yes sir, puking on a man did tend to distract him, and distracting the ominous Marquis was essential.

Squinting against the glare of morning sunlight, he continued his reconnaissance. So far, in addition to the three men stationed here at the house, he'd spied at least two more near the shed. A sudden harsh beam of reflected light drew his attention to the rear of the barn. No doubt about it, another man was on guard duty. Wearing sunglasses against the glare, he crouched amidst a tall stand of trees near the rear of the property.

Soft footsteps announced Wellington's return. Making a great show of superficial serenity, he settled into a large wicker chair and crossed his long spindly legs. "Now then Jefferson, I believe you owe me an explanation."

"You do, eh." Ben responded lazily.

Pushing off the wall, he sauntered over, hooking his thumbs cockily into the waistband of his jeans, offering Wellington a challenging smile. "Given the fact I don't work for you, compounded by your recent mismanagement of the O'Neill matter, that's rather presumptuous of you, don't you think?"

Seemingly unperturbed, Wellington motioned for Ben to take a seat. Then, poured both himself and his quarrelsome guest a tall glass of iced tea. Sitting back, he took a long drink and waited.

Ben accepted the tea and took a hesitant sip of the dark brew finding it excessively sweet. Setting the glass back down on a nearby table, he finally settled into the chair Wellington indicated. "However, given the state of this whole affair, Pendleton seems to think we'd optimize our remaining options more effectively if we worked together."

"Which brings me back to my original query?" Damien drawled.

"Why abduct the old battleaxe?" Ben pursed his lips and leaned forward. "Because, seeing as your men so thoughtlessly killed the general, he chose her as his nephew's legal guardian."

"Of what use is that information to us?" Wellington demanded irritably.

Ben released an exasperated sigh, retorting snidely, "Regrettably, it appears your rather magnificent dual strategy resulted in tragedy."

Resentment gleamed perilously in the detestable Marquis eyes. "Get to the point Jefferson!"

"Patience!" Ben sniped, tilting his head jauntily. "Your men were sloppy to say the least. While tranquilizing Lieutenant Hailey they unwisely mislaid the syringe. Naturally, it was found and traces of its contents analyzed. It was determined, given the strength of the drug it contained; a person of Hailey's small stature would not survive so lethal a dose. The man in charge is a hard case from the Pentagon…Hailey has been written off as a casualty."

So much for making a trade, Wellington silently banked his anger, taking minute pleasure in the knowledge that he'd eliminated the buffoon who'd mismanaged the girl's retrieval.

"Chess is an enticing diversion, don't you agree?" Ben paused.

Shrugging dramatically, he delivered the coup de grace. "However, when one loses his last pawn, it is time to engage in a different sport, one requiring a more simplistic and implicitly heartless approach."

"You surprise me Jefferson. I was informed your unfortunate innate veracity forbade engaging in malicious forms of manipulation." Arching an ironic brow, Damien displayed favorable interest. "Perhaps you'd be good enough to dazzle me further?"

"Gladly, for a price." Ben replied smugly. "I want fifty percent of whatever fee Pendleton offered you…and, a sample of the O'Neill DNA for my own personal pursuits."

Rising, Wellington paced back and forth considering the matter. Once Jefferson revealed his plan and they'd procured the specimen, he could easily dispose of the obnoxious man. Damien doubted Pendleton would complain over the loss. No indeed, more likely he'd be grateful. "Agreed." Ben smirked. Wellington wasn't fooling anyone. He understood all too well that crossing the perfidious Marquis was a death knell. "Good. Now, got anything stronger than tea around here? I could use a belt."

"It's a tad early in the day don't you think?" Wellington sneered.

"Hah! I haven't been to bed yet pal, for me it's the end of one long night." Ben announced loudly, slapping Wellington's back heartily. "What say, you offer me some breakfast along with the booze?"

"Not just yet." Wellington wagged his finger with a frown. "You've yet to explain about the O'Connor woman?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Ben affected astonishment. "The kid's on life support. He's basically brain dead."

"Disheartening, to be sure, but…" Damien began chagrined.

"Ack, think about it!" Ben cajoled. "All we need is the old bat's consent to harvest the kid's organs. We send in your goons disguised as medical types and Viola! DNA heaven!"

"Mrs. O'Connor did not strike me as a woman who is easily coerced." Wellington countered.

"No, she is a tough old bird." Ben agreed lightly. "I'm not some thick desk jockey from the Pentagon, Wellington. I trust poor little Hailey is still breathing?"

"To be sure, for the moment at least." Damien smiled eloquently.

"Well then, time is on our side." Ben clasped his hands together with relish. "Now, about that whiskey?"

"I believe you've earned a drink, Benjamin." Damien purred, unfurling his long body with languid self-satisfaction, he led the way inside.

His demeanor reminded Jefferson eerily of a medieval painting he'd once seen in Italy, entitled: Lucifer's Conceit.

oo

Sassy recovered her equilibrium rapidly. Reaching beneath her blouse, she loosened her brassiere. A small tubular metal case plopped onto her lap. Readjusting her foundation, she flipped the small container open, revealing an insulin-type syringe and a rolled up alcohol pad.

Ripping open the pad, she swabbed Jennifer's neck and unerringly injected the syringe's contents into the girl's jugular. She'd been assured that the drug contained within the syringe would rapidly revive the young lieutenant, thereby saving her life; provided the drugs she'd been given during the abduction hadn't already caused her death.

Despite a detectable pulse, Jennifer was barely breathing. Sassy prayed that the antidote she'd just instilled in the girl's veins was correct.

oo

Normally the look on Daniel's face would have inspired an awkward attempt at humor, but given the gravity of the situation, Jon decided against it. "I know you're ticked off …"

"Ticked off?" Daniel sputtered, his already pale face blanched, then rapidly altered to a deep shade of crimson.

Whew, maybe humor was the right course after all. "Ticked, pissed, furious, irate, annoyed, angry, apoplectic…" Jon recited hoping to engage Daniel in their usual diffusive banter.

"Shut up!" Incensed, Daniel reached out and grasped the front of Jon's military issue sleepwear. Yanking him forward with surprising strength, he shook him forcefully, glaring into his eyes. "Words cannot describe how very enraged I am right at the moment! Of all the stupid, thick, obtuse, harebrained, asinine, arrogant and downright cruel…"

"I take it you have revealed our deception, Jon O'Neill." Teal'c's deep baritone interrupted Daniel's tirade.

Striding over to Jackson's bedside, he took in Daniel's ruddy countenance and Jon's shock. "Daniel Jackson you must desist, this unleashed passion will only serve to do harm."

"Our deception?" Daniel released Jon abruptly.

"Gah!" Jon gasped rubbing his neck. Jeez! Guess Danny was more than a bit put out!

"Precisely who is involved in this little conspiracy besides you and this insensitive jackass, Teal'c?" Daniel demanded through clenched teeth.

"Your anger is justified, as was our reasoning, Daniel Jackson..." Teal'c began.

"Don't!" Daniel barked raising a staying hand. "Just do me the courtesy of answering the question."

The big Jaffa's brows rose and fell with amazement. Straightening his shoulders, he unconsciously assumed a battle stance. "We enlisted the aid of Captain Martin."

"Why?" Daniel snapped.

"Crap, Daniel will you settle down?" Jon returned in kind. "Jack was in sorry shape. Frankly, we weren't even sure he'd make it…"

"Do you honestly think that little tidbit of information helps your case?" Daniel expounded incredulous.

"Damn it, Daniel!" Losing his temper, Jon jumped up and began to pace. "Tell me just what the hell were we supposed to do? Allow them to bring him here and let another mole finish him?"

"Jon, you endangered his life!" Daniel accused. "He could have died!"

"Do you think that escaped my notice?" Jon responded sadly. "Kris did an excellent job of keeping him alive…he's safe Daniel, trust me."

"Daniel Jackson, do you have faith in my judgment?" Teal'c questioned solemnly. Daniel's nod of affirmation softened his tone. "Then believe that our course of action was both necessary and prudent."

Relenting, Daniel sighed. "You're sure Jack is okay?"

"When last we spoke, the physician caring for O'Neill, a Doctor Prost, assured me that he is fine." Teal'c replied confidently.

'You are fine, aren't you Jack?' Jon queried uneasily via their connection.

Jack's mind had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout Daniel's outburst.

'Yep, fit as a fiddle, in the pink, just peachy, renewed, restored…'Jack rattled on.

Relived, Jon stopped pacing. "He's better than fine, Daniel."

"That is indeed the truth, Jon O'Neill. I spoke with Prost only moments ago." Teal'c began perplexed. "However, as I have only just arrived, I am at a loss as to how you are aware of this information."

"Would you believe I, ah, had a premonition?" Jon ventured.

"I would not." Teal'c frowned.  
"Okay, call it a hunch then." Jon sat back on his bed hoping his face conveyed the right amount of innocence.

Teal'c responded with a small bow of acceptance.

"Seems, I wasn't the only O'Neill who experienced divine intervention," Jon muttered with a smirk.

Digesting the implications of Jon's vague admission, Daniel remained mute.

Expecting a myriad of questions once the curious archeologist got his bearings, Jon hoped to redirect the conversation. "So Teal'c, what did I miss?"

Teal'c remained ominously silent for several minutes, his face impassive. A fact, which alerted both Jon and Daniel, that something else was amiss. "When I arrived earlier you were both asleep. Captain Martin insisted that I too needed rest."

Puzzled, Jon quirked a brow. "Okay, so you took a nap…what's got you spooked T?"

"I have been unable to locate Colonel Carter. I had hoped to find her here visiting with you." A small muscle tick in the corner of his jaw betrayed the stoic Jaffa's concern. "Mrs. O'Connor and her security guards are also missing."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Daniel's stomach took a sick tumble. "What about Special Agents Barrett and Drew?"

"They have vanished as well." Was the sepulcher response.

Two very similar, and yet distinct psyches crescendo mutely… 'Oh crap!'

oo

"Are you sure about this, Sam?" Malcolm Barrett was having second thoughts about trusting the rather dubious Jefferson's loyalties.

"Am I sure of Jefferson? No, but then the man didn't offer any guaranties did he?" Sam grimaced. Nothing about this whole mess was a given, except uncertainty. "It's too late to back out now, if we don't succeed Hailey's fate is sealed and Mrs. O'Connor will have needlessly placed herself in jeopardy."

'We don't leave our people behind!' Jack's declaration echoed achingly in that secret place inside her heart where she'd hidden her tender feelings away.

Swallowing a sudden lump in her throat, Sam stifled a sob. "I couldn't prevent the general's death, but I'm gonna make dammed sure that Hailey doesn't join him in the hereafter."

"I still say we should have brought more backup." Ned Drew complained quietly. Using a small single spyglass, he scanned the area for unfriendlies; of those in their merry little band he was the most familiar with the agricultural layout of their target, being an ex-farm boy had its uses. "So far I've identified at least four bogies…one in those trees to the rear, and at least two more backing up the Marquis at the house; a stubby bastard and, to paraphrase one of my favorite books, a gangly fellow with an ill-favored look."

Ignoring the all too O'Neill-like attempt at levity, Sam squinted through her own set of binoculars, studying the barn area intently. A subtle movement high up in the loft's opening alerted her. "I've located one in the barn…wait a minute, make that two." A haze of cigarette smoke curled its way lazily upward from the first level entry.

Malcolm's attention remained fixed on the small device in his hands, monitoring a green blip on the liquid crystal screen. "Sassy's GPS signal is stationary. Looks like Jefferson was right, they didn't search her. Let's just hope we can trust him about everything else."

Unbidden, remnants of his early morning wakeup call danced into his mind. ooo After learning that Jackson would survive, Barrett and Drew, assuming the colonel was asleep, decided to grab a bit of shuteye themselves. There would be plenty of time to discuss things after each of them had at least a couple of hours of much needed rest. Malcolm's eyes had barely closed when muted tapping on his door roused him.

Stumbling to his feet, glancing resentfully toward Ned blissfully asleep in the adjoining bunk, he wrenched the door open irritably, preparing a curt dressing-down for whomever it was that dared to disturb him. Sam Carter's drawn face arrested his ire.

Moving past him, she nudged Ned awake impatiently. "Get dressed." Realizing he was clothed in his boxers, Barrett jumped into his trousers and tucked in his shirt. "What's going on?"

Tossing him a quelling look, Sam furtively led the way to Mrs. O'Connor's quarters.

Mimicking her caution, Barrett and a hastily clad Drew, followed her into the small suite.

Two security types leaned against one wall, looking impossibly young. A disgustingly alert, Sassy O'Connor sat at a round table nibbling a pastry, next to a man, whose brash manner and tone telegraphed extreme confidence. "Morning boys, I suppose you are wondering why we've called you both here. Have a sweet roll."

Sam perched silently on a nearby desk, her face carefully devoid of emotion.

Unsure what to make of this impromptu summons, Barrett refrained from comment and nonchalantly settled into an empty chair at the table. Inspecting the plate of baked goods, he chose a large cheese Danish from the top of the pile. Plucking an imaginary hair from the center, he refused to take the bait.

Ned had been down this road with Barrett before and knew his role well. Still groggy, he sank gratefully onto Sassy's vacant bed. "Okay, I'll bite. Why?"

Pivoting in his chair, Ben's smoky eyes gleamed with malice. "By way of a few, shall we call them rather nefarious, connections; I've been able to glean some vital information regarding Lieutenant Hailey's whereabouts."

"Impressive." Whistling softly, Ned tucked his hands behind his head. "And, who would you be?"

"Someone who gives a rat's ass what happens to one of my late general's missing officers." The unidentified man replied snidely, eliciting a murmur of approval from the two green airmen.

Reclining, Ned yawned dramatically. Sitting across from him, Colonel Carter appeared wary and Barrett seemed vastly interested in his pastry. "I take it that you are a member of Stargate Command? Why, pray tell, haven't you alerted Major Kearney?"

"The major is a boy scout; he'll insist on going by the book and waste precious time." Ben replied with thinly veiled disgust. "Besides, he won't approve of my methods."

"And Colonel Carter does?" Malcolm questioned benignly. Avoiding Sam's gaze, he took a hefty bite of the Danish, chewing it thoughtfully. Apparently she did, otherwise he wouldn't be here.

Snorting, Ben stood up, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I sincerely doubt she does…however, the colonel's intimate familiarity with more than a few sinister situations has enhanced her ability to be a bit less discriminating."

Sam's eyed her boots briefly. Sighing, she exchanged a look with Jefferson. "We don't have a lot of time to waste in debate gentlemen. Hailey's life may just be hanging by a thread. If we are going to move on Airman Jefferson's intel, we need to move fast."

"I assume you've got a plan?" Ned questioned dryly. He'd been watching Sassy's pensive face, wondering just how the older woman fit into this puzzle, when it dawned on him. Sassy wouldn't be here unless she was a part of whatever crazy scheme the colonel and this Jefferson had cooked up. "And I get the feeling that I, for one, am not going to like it one bit."

Hearing the censure in Ned's tone, Sassy's expression shifted. "The success of the ruse we've devised hinges on both you and Malcolm cooperating, Neddy dear."

The motherly tone transmuted into steel. "I'd hate to think that I was wrong about you both."

"I was wondering when the disarmingly spirited Celtic side of your personality would rear its head, Sassy." Malcolm smirked. "I suppose your mind is set?"

Sassy crossed her arms. "I've lost one of my boys, Malcolm. Two more are lying in the infirmary and that sweet little Jennifer is in the clutches of a madman."

Smiling grimly, she continued, "There's an old adage: 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.' Well my lad, there are two women in this room who find the utter contempt this Marquis fellow has for all of us infuriating."

"Don't forget about us, ma'am." Airman Thompson piped up.

"That's right, Hailey is one of ours." Airman Hauser's freckled face reflected his resolve. "General O'Neill would wholeheartedly approve."

"We're going with or without you, Barrett." Sam's chin rose, appreciating their tenacity. "But, I'd much prefer your help."

"All right, I'm willing to listen." Malcolm nodded. "I am curious about one thing, though."

"What's that?" Sam replied shortly.

"Where's Teal'c?" Sam's mulish expression was her only response.

Expelling a grunt of surprise, Malcolm poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea. "Okay then, fill us in."

Ooo

He hated to admit it, but their plan had merit. Oh, it was risky and probably more than a little insane. But then again, given the circumstances and the time constraints involved, their options were few. And so, both he and Ned consented. Following Jefferson's lead they'd stolen out of the SGC.

Now, mere hours later, here they were lying in the mud awaiting their lead operative's signal.

Sam seemed confident Sassy would keep her cool no matter what circumstances she found herself in. And, if she had any misgivings regarding Jefferson she was keeping those close to the vest. As for Malcolm, knowing a bit of the lady's history, he trusted Sassy's innate stubbornness. He would have preferred to leave the two baby faced airmen behind, but relied on O'Neill's exquisite reputation for training to get them through. No, it was the inclusion of Ben Jefferson that gave him pause. He sincerely hoped the two young airmen's trust hadn't been misplaced and Sam's tenuous faith in the man's integrity hadn't been misguided.

oo

TBC in chapter 13…Windows of the Soul.


	13. Windows Of The Soul

**Windows of the Soul.**

_The Candlestick Chronicles by Cjay_

_Chapter thirteen…_

Jack gently nudged the little sheltie off his lap. Rolling his still athletic body out of the hammock, taking a moment to stretch out a few kinks, he ignored the popping Rice Crispy-like crackle of his stiff joints. Alerted by way of his psychic connection to Jon, that Carter, along with Sassy, two NID agents and at least two airmen had taken a powder from the SGC, he contemplated the reprimand he'd inflict on the errant colonel once he found her.

That she'd gone off on some kind of rescue mission seemed crystal clear to a man who wouldn't hesitate to do the same. What irked him was the added little codicil that she'd done so without at least enlisting Teal'c. Not only was that a damned stupid maneuver, well, it rankled.

Such a blatant disregard of her customary prudence led him to the unwelcome conclusion that she wasn't in her right mind. Yep, she'd gone wacko. Why else would she take off like that? And with a civilian, a senior citizen, in tow no less? Okay, he admitted, Sassy was better backup than a whole platoon of Marines, especially when she shifted into her motherly protective mode, but crap, what the hell had possessed Carter?

To be honest, a part of him found her shirking of the rules, her downright defiant rebellion, endearing. Quite obviously she was more upset about his 'death' then he would have guessed she'd be. A small spark of satisfaction warmed the frozen citadel were Jack O'Neill, cynical hard-ass, safeguarded his much abused heart.

On the other hand, maybe Danny's injury and Hailey's kidnapping; coupled with Jon and the T-man's deceit, was the catalyst that finally persuaded, the usually levelheaded, Carter to chuck caution to the winds and venture into the shadowy realm of the covert.

Brooding was getting him nowhere fast; it was time to formulate his own plans.

The invigorating scent of bacon and eggs caused his mouth to water, interrupting his muse. Damn he was hungry! "Well O'Neill, you might as well satisfy your empty belly. Face it pal, what you've really got a yen for is cake. Nothing stimulates your crafty side quite like cake. The fellow who invented chocolate cake was a veritable mastermind. Hmm…yes, I wonder if Prost has any devil's food on hand." Sighing longingly, he let his nose lead him to temporary nirvana.

oo

Kris burst into Jeff's kitchen. Breathless, she took in the trio of men having a companionable breakfast at the table.

They say that the eyes are the windows of the soul, if that were true then her utter joy must be shining in her deep green orbs now! Letting out a whoop, Kris threw her arms around her general. "I knew it!" Rearing her head back, she greedily looked him over. "Yes, just as I suspected!"

Secretly touched by her enthusiasm, Jack flushed, squirming with embarrassment. "Jeez, get a grip and let go of me, will ya?"

Ignoring his protest, Kris laughingly hugged him tighter. "Hey I'm entitled; you scared the heck out of me, Jack."

"That's General O'Neill, Captain Martin," shrugging her off, he quirked his brows inquiringly. "What is it you suspected exactly?"

Grinning broadly, Kris backed up slightly, wiping a tear from her eye. His bluster didn't fool her, for just a second there he'd warmly returned her hug. "I suspected I'd find you fully recovered, sir, just like Jon."

Yep, there he stood, his body fully restored, wearing a carefully inane expression that was so uniquely Jack. "Sweet!" Kris chortled, throwing her arms around his neck; she squeezed him with renewed vigor.

Effectively imprisoned, Jack tugged futilely at her arms, tossing a helpless look Prost's way. "Can I get a little help here, please?" He croaked.

Three avid heads, one canine and two human, observed this interchange with stunned surprise.

"Gah!" Jack groused. "Whatever happened to military protocol and respect?"

"Oh, deal with it. I thought I was gonna lose you this time!" Kris chastised him lightly. "Besides, when it comes to your health, I outrank you."

"Gad!" Shaking his head with defeat, Jack rolled his eyes and stopped struggling. "Fine, you've got two minutes. Go on ahead and get it out of your system."

Hearing the petulant fondness in his tone, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek and released him at last. "Thanks, I needed that."

Suppressing a grin, Jack eyed their silent audience. Mischief's furry little face seemed to smile with delight. Prost, his hand suspended in midair, clutching a forkful of egg, appeared bemused. Draymak wore a guarded expression, but his eyes twinkled with mirth. Offering them a stern general-like stare, he ordered, "Not a word to anyone about this, understood?"

"Sir, yes, sir." The duo responded crisply; the dog ruffed softly.

Accepting their consent, Jack returned his attention to Kris. "Now then, Captain Martin…"

"Sorry to interrupt General, but I've got urgent news." Kris began formally. "Perhaps, we should adjourn to a more secure area?"

"Judging by your behavior; couldn't be that urgent." Jack sniped. Waving a permissive hand, he yielded the floor. "Fine, fill us in."

"But sir…" Kris hesitated, staring coldly at Draymak.

"Spill it, Captain…Colonel Draymak is one of ours." Jack supplied, noting her sidelong gaze.

Taking in Jeff's nod of confirmation, Kris bit her lip. "Err, everything, sir?" She questioned carefully.

Sighing, Jack realized she was worried about the whole miraculous healing thing. "Short and sweet please, Martin…You know how I hate unnecessary details."

"Yes, General." Kris grinned fondly.

Hearing the caution behind his artificial complaint, Kris accepted the chair he pulled out for her. Sobering, she took a moment to gather her thoughts.

Jack handed her a cup of rich black coffee. Once she'd dutifully taken a sip, he cocked his head expectantly.

"Okay, well…a corpsman relieved me about 0530. I was on my way to my quarters…I was going to search the computer for some information…" Eyeing Draymak, she adjusted direction. "I rounded a corner and spotted Colonel Carter accompanied by the two NID agents sneaking up the corridor."

"Sneaking?" Draymak echoed, leaning forward with interest.

"Definitely. One thing I know how to do is read people… their body language was unmistakable." Kris confirmed grudgingly. Just who was this guy?

Amused, Jack smiled crookedly, admiring her pluck. "Go on…what were they up to?"

"That's what I wanted to know. I followed discreetly… they made their way to the VIP room assigned to Mrs. O'Connor." Kris narrowed her eyes. "The closed door was too thick…the only words I could make out were Hailey and mission." Coughing slightly, she paused to take another sip of coffee.

"Who is Hailey?" Jeff asked, refilling her cup.

"Lieutenant Hailey is a valuable member of my command." Jack interjected, concerned.

"While we were busy here last night…someone called Wellington broke into the general's house; kidnapped Hailey and shot Dr. Jackson…who's recovering nicely, sir." Kris assured.

"Good to know, thank you Captain." Jack responded with a grateful sigh.

"Given the events of the past few days and knowing SG-1's history for ah, 'creative solutions'…I figured it was a sure bet they'd mount a rescue…" Kris licked her lips awkwardly.

Jack's brows rose and fell with ironic resignation. "Ah yes, nothing like a reputation." He muttered.

"Exactly." Kris drawled. Shrugging appreciatively, she continued, "I considered what you'd do if you were in my situation, sir. And decided to head 'em off at the pass…"

"Please, Captain." Jack groaned. "Save the clichés."

"Yes, sir." Frowning, Kris swallowed another light quip. "I camouflaged my Jeep in some bushes not far from the exit gate and waited. About thirty minutes later, I caught sight of Colonel Carter driving a black sedan…once security waved her through, I followed, discreetly of course. Approximately twenty miles out, a Chevy van intercepted the sedan, forming a mini-convoy… not long after, the vehicles turned off the main highway onto an old access road, where they split up. The Chevy proceeded to a relatively secluded farm."

"And?" Karl prodded. If this was the short version, he hated to contemplate the longer one.

Shooting him an annoyed look, Kris set her cup on the wooden table. "The colonel, the NID agents and two airmen hid the sedan in some thick trees. Then, they slinked into the woods, armed to the teeth."

"Any sign of Mrs. O'Connor?" Jack wondered yet again how Sassy fit into all this. Thanks to his telepathic information, he knew she'd absconded with Carter, so where the hell was she?

Sensing the general's apprehension, Mischief sidled up to him, resting her head comfortingly on his thigh. Centering on Kris, Jack absently stroked the sheltie's head.

Returning her attention to the general, Kris's brow creased with worry. "No, sir. I didn't see her, but she could have been in the back of that van…In order to prevent discovery, I kept my distance."

Impressed with the Captain's maneuverings, despite his initial irritation, Draymak's voice was cordial. "Did you notify anyone back at the base as to the whereabouts of this…farm?"

Reaching into her pocket Kris drew out her cell phone, tossing it scornfully onto the table. "I was going to call our friend 'Murray' with the location, but the damned phone's batteries went dead, so I high-tailed it here. Believe it or not, it's just about five miles north."

"Prost, how many shotguns have you got?" Jack pulled the handgun out of his waistband and checked the clip. "I'm gonna need more ammunition."

"Right, I've got at least three extra clips, the shotgun and one box of ammo." Jeff informed him grimly. "Then there's Draymak's weapon, sir."

"Got two additional clips in my car, and a few other goodies we can use, General." Karl growled with a feral smile. Ah, the sweet smell of combat!

Jeff, hearing the familiar thrill of battle in the other man's voice exchanged a knowing look with Kris. "Look sir, good as we are, we need more firepower."

"Ya think?" Jack rubbed a hand over his stubble-covered chin. 'Got that kid?' He added silently, smoothly connecting with his telepathic counterpart.

'Way ahead of you there Jack, but just for appearances maybe you'd better give Teal'c a call…Wouldn't do for us to tip our psychic hand.' Jon responded swiftly.

'Duh!' Jack volleyed sarcastically. Rising, he shifted smoothly into command mode. "Martin, use the doc's phone, get hold of 'Murray' and fill him in on the situation…use his personal line. Draymak, go get your arsenal. I assume you've got a map stashed in that vehicle of yours?"

"Yes, sir, General, never leave home without them. I've got both topographical and generic." Karl tossed over his shoulder crisply, halfway out the door.

"Sweet." Tucking the handgun back into his waistband, Jack pulled contemptuously at his attire. "Prost, I'm gonna need something besides this…hospital garb to wear."

"Understood, General…got an old pair of khakis and hunting shirt that should do…might be a bit baggy though." Pushing back from the table, Jeff looked inquiringly at the general's feet. "As for shoes…"

Rolling his eyes, Jack huffed. "This isn't a fashion show, Prost!"

"No, sir!" Jeff agreed. "But your feet… meaning no disrespect, sir, but they are quite large."

Having successfully contacted Teal'c, Kris offered the general the handset. "Our friend would like a word with you, sir."

"Just find any old pair of tennis shoes, Prost. I should be able to squeeze my clodhoppers into them." Mildly insulted, Jack grabbed the phone. "Hey there T, Martin fill you in?"

"Indeed, O'Neill, it is good to hear your voice once again." Teal'c sounded genuinely pleased. "Estimate, will achieve rendezvous coordinates in forty minutes."

"Roger that. Listen T, bring along a pair of my boots, an Omega vest, my sidearm and my trusty P-90, will ya?" Jack smiled wolfishly. "I'm feeling downright implacable today."

Miles away, the big Jaffa's smile was equally chilling.

ooo

Major Paul Davis sluggishly washed a dose of aspirin down with some of Walter's vile black coffee. Two hours of sleep and a crack of dawn phone conference with the Pentagon had done little to lighten his mood, or relieve his pounding headache.

General Jumper's contacts in Washington corroborated Airman Stokes' story, confirming that he'd been acting under orders. Jumper's thinly veiled contempt for the CIA, coupled with his outrage over their interference, proved to be satisfying, but futile.

Apparently the President misguidedly sanctioned Stokes' involvement. Hence, Jumper reluctantly ordered Davis to release the man and reinstate him under Kearney's command. An order the major intended to ignore, at least until this little escapade was resolved.

Normally, Davis was a by the book type, but relaying that particular order to the beleaguered members of Stargate Command would be far more detrimental to his well being than any reprimand the Pentagon doled out.

Breathless, his earnest face harried, Sergeant Walter Davis rushed into the office without knocking. "Pardon the intrusion, Major…"

"No problem, Walter. What's up?" Paul straightened up in his chair.

"On my way here, I ran into Teal'c exiting the armory, sir. He was in full battle regalia…and when I asked him what was going on he gave me a rather cryptic answer." Gulping air, Walter hesitated. "He said that O'Neill required his assistance."

"O'Neill required assistance?" Paul questioned. Last he'd heard the kid was still recovering from anesthesia. "I thought Jon O'Neill was safely ensconced in the infirmary…"

"Ah, not anymore, sir, you were on the phone with Washington and so not wanting to interrupt, I checked personally. According to the corpsman on duty, both he and Dr. Jackson…they left, sir." Walter replied his voice carefully neutral.

"I don't understand…are you telling me two men, who just last night lay fighting for their very lives, just up and…" The major began.

"Left. Yes, sir, they did." Walter confirmed his tone mystified. "Corpsman Swan reported that approximately twenty-five minutes ago, Teal'c, who was visiting the pair, received an urgent call from Captain Martin and rushed off. When Jon made to follow, Jackson latched on to him and refused to be left behind. They argued briefly and…"

"Then what, Sergeant?" The major prodded impatiently.

"Jon placed his hands on Jackson's wounded leg and leaned over blocking the corpsman view. After a minute or so, Jackson's body seemed to convulse upward slightly. Concerned, the corpsman rushed forward, but Jon commanded him to stay back." Walter's voice lowered conspiratorially. "He said it was eerie, sir. He said if he didn't know better he'd sworn it was the general's voice barking at him, so he stopped."

The sergeant paused dramatically, noting the trepidation mirrored in the major's expression. "Not long after that, grinning like a madman, Dr. Jackson just hopped up out of the bed, said he was feeling much better, instructed the corpsman not to worry and pulled out his IV line."

"What the hell?" Paul sputtered.

"Swan says Jon yelled 'Yes!' and punched the air triumphantly with his fists." Walter smiled wistfully. "Smirking, he put a finger to his lips and instructed the stunned medic to 'keep a lid on it' - and the pair left."

"Son of a …Does anyone around here understand the notion of chain of command?" Major Davis barked chagrined. "Precisely when was Corpsman Swan going to get around to reporting all this?"

"Well, sir…ah, he was in the process of updating Dr. Carson when I arrived." Walter responded tentatively.

"I thought it best to gather a bit more intel before bringing it to your attention, Major Davis." Dr. Carson's confident baritone broke in. Striding arrogantly through the office portal, Kit tossed a handwritten missive onto the major's desk. "Jackson should have been a physician, his scrawl is almost as inscrutable as mine…according to his note, Colonel Carter took off early this morning on some half-cocked rescue mission…naturally the remainder of SG-1 determined she needed back-up."

"Naturally, why do I ask these things?" Major Davis muttered with disgust.

"I alerted security, but they'd already left the base, sir. Major Kearney's pretty peeved, he asked me to inform you that he and his contingent are attempting to catch up with them." Walter interjected. "He said the general would've comprehended the urgency of the situation and authorized immediate action."

Outraged, the major jumped up from his chair, glaring imperiously at the little sergeant. "Are you telling me that General O'Neill would have approved of his officers blatantly disregarding regulations?"

Walter gaped back owl-eyed. "I…"

"No sir, I don't believe he would, sir. But, he would have understood." Carson sanctioned gently.

"Would he?" Rubbing the back of his neck, Major Paul Davis, straight arrow and Pentagon liaison, took a calming breath, contemplating the truth in Carson's statement. O'Neill would have been proud of his command's efforts, misguided though they were. He had to admit they're unorthodox methods rarely failed. It was one of the things he most admired about O'Neill in the first place. His ability to nurture and appreciate innovation earned him, an irreverent smart-ass and maverick, the rank of brigadier; as well as the unwavering loyalty of a very select group of elite highly skilled, and strangely brilliant, members of the military.

"General O'Neill trusted us, sir." Walter surmised with quiet dignity.

"I'll give you that gentleman." Curious, the major wondered just what the late general would have made of this whole insane situation and smirked. "So then, tell me, precisely what would General O'Neill do?" oo

Jennifer Hailey's pale flesh finally felt warm. Whether that was due to the antidote instilled into her veins, or Sassy's own considerable body heat, wasn't clear. Anxious for even the most infinitesimal sign of consciousness, the savvy senior monitored the younger woman carefully, all the while taking note of the prison in which she now found herself.

Using the dim kerosene lamp, she peered into every nook and cranny, reluctant to physically leave Jennifer's side until she was confident, the girl would recover. The light proved to be invaluable; lamentably one corner of the dank subterranean room remained shrouded in impenetrable shadow. However, once Jennifer came around Sassy was going to make it her business to discover just what lay hidden there.

The outcome of this adventure lay heavily upon Sassy's innate ability to remain flexible and unshaken. Samantha's instructions played over in her mind like an old phonograph record. "Look for a window or exit of some kind…openings are structurally less sound and require a smaller explosive charge."

For the hundredth time, Sassy blessed her life-long tendency to suffer from motion sickness. Regurgitating all over Wellington's shoes, not only prevented a search; it exacted a small measure of revenge on the insufferable demon. Yes, throwing up had never been such bliss.

Slight movement drew her avid attention to the young woman by her side. Jennifer moaned softly, her eyelids fluttered and then opened narrowly. Sassy smiled, stroking the girl's brow lovingly. "Hello, sleepyhead."

Jennifer found it difficult to focus, her head felt wooly and her limbs heavy. "Sassy? What…?"

Sassy gently pressed a staying hand against the younger woman's shoulders. "Don't try to sit up just yet, honey. The drug they gave you was mighty powerful and it's gonna take a bit before you'll feel more yourself. Do you remember anything?"

Centering blearily on Sassy's astutely reassuring eyes, memories flooded Jennifer's foggy brain. "I…went out on the deck for air, and something struck me in the neck…two masked men jumped me… I yelled, I think…I heard a muted snap and then, Daniel gasped and I fell into blackness…. That snapping sound… I think it was a silencer… was Daniel?"

"Never fear Danny is tougher than people credit. He's recovering nicely." Sassy patted her cheek affectionately. "Right now you're my concern."

A loud creak and the solid thunk of footsteps above her head drew Jennifer's attention upward. The musty ceiling confirmed her fear; they were not in the infirmary. Casting a worried look around, she licked at her dry lips. "Exactly, where are we, Sass?"

"Lengthy explanations will have to wait; we may not have much time. Trust me, okay." Noting Jennifer's cracked and parched lips, Sassy leaned back.

Eyeing the door, she reached under her blouse, retrieving two small bundles. "I've always said that nothing in this world can replace the youth enhancing benefits of a firm and properly fitting foundation."

"However, on occasion adding to ones natural curves can be just as uplifting."She added with a twinkle in her eye. Grinning broadly, she displayed a small packet of C-4, along with a miniaturized detonator and two flexible 250 cc intravenous bags.

Setting her mini-arsenal aside, she slipped a folded blanket and the shabby pillow beneath Jennifer's still weakened shoulders.

Reaching into the pocket of her once fashionable blazer, Sassy removed a small Swiss army knife. "MacGyver was such an enlightening bit of entertainment. You know, I've got half a dozen rolls of duck tape at home." Using the blade, she cut one of the ports on an intravenous bag and eased it between Jennifer's battered lips. "Here drink this, its 50 dextrose and it'll replenish your fluids and energy. And then, once you feel more yourself, we're busting out of here."

Stunned, Jennifer gratefully sucked at the small straw-like port, swallowing the excessively sweet fluid greedily. It struck her that General O'Neill's trust in this lady, God rest him, hadn't been misguided. Sassy O'Connor was full of surprises.

oo

Ben Jefferson tossed back another shot of whiskey, appreciating its fiery effects. He had to hand it to Wellington; the man set a fine table. He'd consumed half a dozen eggs and several helpings of crispy hickory smoked bacon with his liquid libation.

Happily, Ben's appetite for food was quite satisfied. However, his other less obvious desires had yet to be attended to.

Wellington for his part had eaten lightly, presenting a polite façade of patience for his new compatriot's needs. "Now that you're sated, perhaps we should enlighten Mrs. O'Connor regarding her role in our plan."

Making a great show of stretching his long frame, Ben slyly noted the time displayed on an ornate old mantle clock nearby. Almost 0843, if Hailey's condition was indeed salvageable, and according to the Marquis it was, Sassy would have no doubt roused her by now.

Casting a bored glace Wellington's way, he noted a flicker of impatience in the man's cold eyes. "I don't suppose you'd mind if I took a wee nap before we deal with the O'Connor woman?"

Wellington's eyes narrowed, a muscle in his left cheek twitched with annoyance. "Really Jefferson, the sooner we make an impression on the lady, the sooner this matter will be resolved."

Sighing, Ben rubbed his hands over his face and yawned dramatically. "Fine, but at the very least allow me the courtesy of a rejuvenating shower and a shave. I don't really enjoy, ah, how did you phrase it? Oh yes, 'engaging in malicious forms of manipulation' feeling less than fresh."

Gritting his teeth, Damien smiled thinly, feigning nonchalance. "Never let it be said that I was a less than genial host, Jefferson. I'll have Arturo show you to my guest suite. I have several matters that require my attention. Will an hour be sufficient?"

It was well past time he checked in with their mutual employer.

Smirking lazily, Ben rose from his chair and deliberately staggered. "Whoa, guess I should have gone easy on the hooch, eh Wellington? I really think I should take a few and sleep it off."

Wellington's thin face took on a pinched look. "Nonsense my dear fellow, a cold shower and some black coffee will right things quickly enough."

The irritated Marquis stood abruptly and strode into the hall. "Arturo!"

The little man rounded the corner promptly, his plain face questioning.

Maintaining his pretense, Ben slurred. "Oh, there you are Arty. How's about you show me to the john? I gotta pee like a race horse!" Reeling, he toppled back into his chair, relishing Wellington's hiss of disgust.

Jefferson so enjoyed taunting adversaries; a year spent under the impertinent Jack O'Neill's excellent tutelage added new dimension to his capacity.

Casting a look of forbearance toward Wellington, Arturo grasped one of the inebriated man's arms, helping him to rise, and laid it over his shoulder. As they moved into the hall another taller man, his face and neck badly scarred by childhood acne, joined them.

Intoxicated by Wellington's aggravation, Ben decided to enhance his performance, drunkenly breaking into song. Crooning a bawdy off-key ditty, he allowed the two men to support and guide him up the long staircase to the second floor.

Wellington watched their progress with distaste, his budding need to be rid of the uncouth Jefferson blooming into an obsession.

oo

Feeling much restored, Jennifer Hailey greedily attacked the second quarter liter of dextrose solution Sassy had secreted inside her underwear. The sooner she replenished her fluids, the sooner she could lend her valiant rescuer a hand.

Hailey's would-be liberator examined her damsel-in-distress with a critical eye. Jennifer's gaze was steady and her cheeks appeared rosy enough. Satisfied, Sassy took up the lantern and moved cautiously into the unlit corner's dark gloom. Eyes widening, due to the weak light, she noted an ascending staircase leading up to a vertical set of storm doors.

Taking the crumbling stairs with caution, she pushed against the closed portal with limited success. Stepping up so that her shoulders could engage the steel, she pushed with renewed effort, parting the doors a fraction.

Dust and debris rained down on her head, clogging her nostrils. Bright morning light flooded through the slender crack her efforts created, assaulting her dilated pupils. Setting the lantern down on the stair next to her feet, Sassy exhaled forcefully clearing her nose, wiped her watering eyes on her sleeve and tried again.

This time the doors parted about an inch, allowing her a clear visual of the thick lock and chain securing them. "Perfect!" This was their way out.

A loud thunk and staggering footsteps above her head startled Jennifer. Rising quickly, she fought a bout of vertigo, clinging to the rough iron of the bedstead. Closing her eyes, she stood perfectly still allowing the sensation to pass.

The footsteps seemed to move away and fade. Taking up the cake of C-4 and the micro-detonator, she slowly made her way to Sassy's side. "I assume the Calvary is somewhere nearby?"

"Naturally," Sassy chuckled lightly, "This isn't my first tea party, ya know. When all this is over, remind me to tell you about the time Jonathan, Danny and I, eliminated several undesirables. I think you might find it entertaining."

Memories of Jonathan's soulful eyes gleaming with respect flooded her mind, causing her aged eyes to water once more. Denying her sudden feeling of loss, Sassy added. "Now, suppose you make use of that handy little lump of modeling clay you've got there?"

"Ma'am, yes ma'am." Jennifer snorted with quiet admiration.

While the older woman continued to apply pressure to the vertical exit, the petite lieutenant slipped her small hands through the slim opening created, wrapping one end of the flexible explosive around the chain. "That's got it, go ahead and let it fall back into place."

Once the doors returned to their original position, Jennifer folded the remainder of the C-4 against the crevice. Then, pressed the detonator into the dough-like material. "Hold that lantern up, will you please, ma'am? I need to set the arming mechanism."

Checking her watch, Sassy noted it was 0850 and said a silent prayer. "We need to allow our support another ten minutes to get into position, Jennifer."

Resisting the urge to demand more information, Jennifer complied, and set the small digital timer. "That should do it. Now I suggest we use that moth-eaten mattress and anything else we can find to construct a bunker for ourselves."

Turning the bed on its side, they braced the old steamer trunk against it and hunkered down behind the mattress.

Stuffing the ratty pillow beneath her touchy knees, Sassy inquired uncertainly. "Just how loud will this explosion be, Jennifer?"

"In terms of decibels? I'd say about equal to a rock concert courtesy of Aerosmith, Sass." Plucking one of the threadbare blankets from the floor, Jennifer smiled grimly and shredded a portion of it into several strips. "Better stuff some of this into your ears."

"Gad!" Sassy's lips puckered into a moue of distinct displeasure.

oo

"Coffee isn't gonna sober this oaf up fast enough." Marcel released Jefferson's arm with a sneer. "His condition demands something more immediate; say a quick invigorating plunge into an icy bath." Leaving Arturo to tend the drunkard, he hastened into the bathroom and leaned over the old-fashioned claw foot tub, adjusting the tap to cold.

Casting a resentful glance toward his ill-tempered comrade, Arturo dutifully steadied Ben's unstable bulk against the wall in the adjoining room and bent to unlace the man's boots.

Moving with lightening fast efficiency, Ben snapped the little man's neck, killing him instantly. "Oops, guess I am…bammed...err…bombed... hell, lets face it Arty, I'm sh…sh…it…faced!" Easing the dead man to the floor, he reached for the military issue knife hidden in his boot.

Soundlessly slithering into the bath, he hovered behind the irascible Marcel. Snaking an arm around the taller man's throat, Jefferson neatly sliced through his carotid artery and trachea with expert grace.

The scarred man slid soundlessly into the tub, his eyes staring sightlessly into oblivion.

Wiping the crimson liquid staining his blade on the corpse's water spattered shirt, Ben watched the blood pour from the downed man's neck for a fascinating moment. Unabashed exhilaration coursed through him. His mouth curved into a sardonic, arctic smile.

Retrieving Arturo's body from the other room, he coldly discarded the carcass in the bath alongside his deceased friend, careful not to block the drain. Satisfied the tub wouldn't run over, he adjusted the water temperature. Hoping the water was hot enough to generate a cloud of steam and discourage scrutiny.

Contemplating the ease with which he'd just killed the pair; Jefferson shook off an ominous fission of disquiet.

Realizing time was running short; he checked his watch and began his clandestine descent to intercept the Marquis.

oo

Sprawled out in the dirt on his belly, Rowan Thompson shuddered. Colonel Carter's plan called for a dual approach. His orders were to recon and flank the barn. Once the signal was given, Rowan and his partner were to move in and secure the building. So far, other than the two men the colonel spotted earlier, the area appeared to be deserted. Still, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. Targeting his buddy Phil Hauser's rump, he tossed a pebble, scoring a direct hit.

Something small bounced sharply off his butt. Glancing around, Hauser threw Thompson an irritated frown. Rowan edgily mouthed the words 'come here.'

Dragging himself crab-like over the short rocky expanse between them, Hauser poked Thompson gruffly in the ribs. "What was that for?"

Licking at the light sheen of sweat on his upper lip, Rowan narrowed his eyes, nervously searching the topography behind them. "Someone is watching us."

Flipping onto his back, Hauser used his rifle sight to conduct his own probe of the hilly terrain.

They were positioned on the upper lip of a gully, overlooking the dilapidated barn of the rundown farm where Jefferson insisted Hailey was being held. Bisected by a slow running creek, the gully was deep; its steep sides brush covered and uneven.

Other than a few birds and something furry scampering through the underbrush, nothing moved. Still, on more than one occasion during training General O'Neill indicated approval of Rowan's uncanny ability to perceive a threat. "Thompson, I don't see…"

"I'm telling you, I can feel it!" Rowan insisted his hackles rising. Fingering his radio, he clicked thrice. A responding double click gave him the go ahead to speak.

Opening the channel, eyes darting worriedly over the perimeter, he whispered. "Colonel Carter…unable to make a visual at this time, but my gut is telling me someone or something is on our six."

o

Teal'c bowed with dignity and handed his leader an Omega vest, P-90 and boots. "It is good to see you well again, O'Neill."

"Thanks, T-man." Bending his arm at the elbow, Jack used his thumb to point toward the two men standing slightly behind him. "This is Colonel Draymak and Doc Prost. Captain Martin is securing our vehicle up the road a piece."

Indicating the small dog sitting at attention near his feet, he smirked. "And, this is Mischief the wonder dog."

Enjoying the humor, Jon squatted down, extending his hand for the mini-collie to sniff. So, this was Jack's erstwhile protector.

"Ah, I'd be careful…" Draymak began mindful of his own first encounter with the deceptively docile pup.

Sniffing Jon's hand, Mischief's animated face seemed to grin. Prancing forward, she slathered Jon's face with joyful wet canine kisses. Chuckling lightly, Jon stroked her furry flanks. "Hey there girl, we're gonna be great friends aren't we?"

Jack slipped into his vest. Checking his weapons, he bit the corner of his lip, eyeing Daniel cagily. "Daniel, you okay?"

Daniel tucked his eyeglasses into the pocket of his Omega vest with a wry smile. Same old Jack. Removing the safety on his weapon, he spared Jon a jaunty glance. "Never better, Jack. Thanks to the kid here."

Jack turned a critical eye his clone's way. Had he really once looked so impossibly young? Fitted out in full camouflage and battle gear the kid's jaded brown eyes seemed out of place, set amidst his baby smooth half-grown features. "You all set, kid?"

"Yep." Jon responded shortly, unfolding his lanky form and standing erect. Taking in the two men backing the general up, he rocked back on his heels, offering each of them a nod of salute. Hands resting confidently on his weapon, he returned Jack's appraisal with a wicked smile. "Fact is, Uncle Jack, I'm looking forward to it." Clare's demise and Hailey's abduction, not to mention Danny's injury and Jack's brush with death, fueled his grim determination.

Sharing his thoughts, Jack nodded his understanding. Hunkering down on a nearby rock, he silently blessed the trusty Jaffa and removed the worn sneakers he'd been wearing, gratefully shoving his feet into his favorite boots. "Lay it out, Draymak."

"Sir!" Karl snapped his voice low. "We spotted Colonel Cater and her contingent just beyond that small rise approximately a hundred yards due north."

"Contingent?" Daniel queried quietly. Just how many men had Sam brought?

"Yes, sir, I counted four armed men, besides the colonel." Draymak confirmed solemnly.

"They've split into two groups essentially establishing two fronts." Jeff added, snapping his fingers, he drew the small dog to his side. "I was thinking General, we could attach a message to Mischief's collar and send her in to intercept…"

"Negative, Prost." Jack shook his head, tying off the lace on his left boot with a flourish. "One of those trigger happy kids just might put a bullet in her…"

A loud explosion interrupted his next thought.

Jack straightened swiftly. The mask of leadership sobering his features. Using curt hand signals, he fingered his P-90 and led the way toward Carter's last known location.

oo

TBC in chapter 14…**Cry Havoc**…


	14. Cry Havoc!

37

**CRY HAVOC!**

_The Candlestick Chronicles by Cjay…_

_Chapter fourteen…_

Major Kearney severed the connection and grimly pocketed his cell phone, sparing his driver a perturbed look. "Apparently, Major Davis isn't thrilled with our little 'expedition,' Eisley."

"I don't suppose any of us will lose any sleep over our decision to volunteer for this mission, sir." Running his tongue over his slightly protruding bottom lip, Eisley shrugged. "I mean, we all want a crack at the scum-sucking-son-of…that is, General O'Neill sure as heck would've understood."

Dismissing future consequences, Kearney's hard mouth curved into an untroubled smile, "Understood, my Aunt Fanny! The general would've been the first one geared up."

As the Jeep rocked precariously over a large rut in the road, he glanced over his shoulder. "How much further, Emerson?"

Seated behind the driver, Technical Sergeant Henry Emerson, his eyes glued to the laptop tucked between his knees, mopped an errant bead of sweat out of his deep blue eyes with the back of one hand. "It's difficult to triangulate precisely, sir. Something seems to be jamming the GPS signal…"

"Jamming?" Kearney's freckled brow creased with doubt. "I thought this tracking device of yours was state of the art?"

"It is, sir." Looking up, Emerson nodded. "Which means someone nearby is using some very sophisticated equipment to interfere, creating a kind-of dead zone." Emerson returned his attention to the computer screen, running his brilliant fingers blithely over the keyboard. "The good news is I can use the zone's circumference to guesstimate the epicenter and approximate its location."

Pleased with the airman's ingenuity, Kearney sucked his teeth. They'd catch up to Colonel Carter and her little task force yet! "Do it."

oo

Setting his pen aside, Damien Wellington straightened up; his sixth sense alerting him that something was amiss. Cocking his head to one side, he listened for Arturo's quiet tread.

Other than the sound of the shower running somewhere above stairs and the ticking of his desk clock the house was silent. It was unlike his dedicated houseman to delay returning to his side. Considering Jefferson's advanced state of inebriation, perhaps he'd remained to safeguard the irritating man's safety whilst in the bath, however, Damien doubted it. No, something was definitely off.

Reaching into his desk, he retrieved his weapon of choice, a small thirty-eight-caliber pistol. He favored it, not only because it had been his very first weapon, but also because it was so easily hidden from unsuspecting eyes. Pushing his office chair back, the Marquis unfolded his thin frame and advanced stealthily to the open door, cursing the old oak flooring when it squeaked softly under his feet.

Halfway to the first floor landing, Ben froze on the stairs. Switching the deceased Arturo's gun to his left hand, he pulled his lethally efficient blade out of his boot once more; eyes alight with anticipation, prepared to strike.

Leaning outward, unable to clearly see the stairwell, Wellington coldly scanned the hallway finding it deserted. Proficient in the game of cat-and-mouse, he advanced forward slightly, hoping to encourage any aggressor to engage him while still in a position of relative cover.

Equally cunning, Ben grinned, enjoying the game and slid back into the shadows.

The big clock in the hallway, always a minute fast, chimed the hour. Wellington inhaled sharply and swiftly made his way into the hall, his body flush with the wall, eyes directed upward to the stairway.

Nothing moved. The clock continued to chime. Wellington's cold gray eyes flickered over the corridor. Moving to the landing, his muscles tensed as he lifted his left foot to mount the stairs.

Still partially concealed by shadow, Ben launched his blade. As the dagger propelled forward it briefly reflected the sunlight streaming through a small stained glass window above, alerting the evil Marquis.

Reacting instinctively, Wellington fired into the shadows, just as Ben's knife struck him. Clutching the blade protruding from his right breast with his left hand, the iniquitous Marquis screamed, overcome. He'd often inflicted pain, relishing his captive's torment, but rarely had the craven sadist endured it. Despite his momentary incapacitation, he squinted into the dim recesses of the upper landing and raised his gun with his shaking right hand, preparing to fire.

Gloating, Ben stepped forward intending to end the foul Marquis' miserable existence. His finger tensed, squeezing the pistol's trigger; an explosion rocked the house. Thrown off balance, his shot went wide.

As Jefferson stumbled into the light, Wellington quickly fired, deftly riding the trembling floorboards beneath his feet.

Searing pain blossomed inside his skull, knocking Ben backward. Staggering, he fell.

Panting with pain, as well as victory, Wellington turned and hurried away.

oo

The force of the blast not only shook the old farmhouse to its foundation, it crumbled the entire south wall of the structure; filling the cellar room, where Hailey and Sassy squatted behind their makeshift fortification, with a thick cloud of debris.

Uncovering her head with a cough, Sassy blinked against the haze created by unsettled dust particles and blazing morning light. "Well, that was certainly loud."

Stifling a laugh, Hailey assisted the older woman to her feet. "As Teal'c would say, 'Indeed.'"

"Come on Sass; let's get the hell out of here!" Latching onto Sassy's hand, Jennifer wiped her burning eyes on the sleeve of her battered blouse.

Pushing past their barricade, the two waded through bits of rubble. Admiring the gaping opening created by their little bomb.

Hailey climbed what was left of the ascending stairwell. Once she reached the top stair, she carefully popped her head up over the edge and scanned the area. Spying a pair of long legs coming around the corner of the house, she cursed her lack of a weapon.

Looking up, Sassy noted the fleeting quiver of trepidation pass over Jennifer's dust covered face. Surmising that one of the odious Marquis' henchmen must be approaching, she ran back into the wreckage searching for the sturdy galvanized bucket she'd noted earlier.

Retreating, Jennifer prepared to engage in hand-to-hand combat. She'd be damned before she gave up without a fight! Pulling her petite body behind a pile of shattered timber, she wiped her sweaty palms on her filthy trousers. Then crouching down, she picked up a fractured length of lumber.

Soft, hesitant footfalls preceded the pair of leg's rapid descent.

Holding her breath Jennifer allowed their pursuer to descend several feet and then used the wood to trip him. As the man plummeted down the remaining steps, Sassy set her teeth and cracked him on the head with the bucket.

Finished, the man fell senseless to the floor.

"Nice job, Sass!" Jennifer praised the senior quietly. Dropping the wood, she relieved their unconscious assailant of his handgun.

Breathless, Sassy patted her trusty pail and whispered. "Do you think he was alone?"

Jennifer shook her head. "Tie him up, Sass. I'll check." Glancing upward, she listened intently and rested her finger on the handgun's trigger, climbing the steps once more.

Using the man's belt, Sassy looped it around his wrists eyeing the stiff knot she'd fashioned dubiously. Unlacing his boots, she tied his laces together, hoping if he did awaken and tried to rise, he'd trip. Searching his pockets she found a rather nasty switchblade. Jamming it into her pocket, she turned him over to stuff a rag into his slack mouth and gasped. "Oh no!" Quickly unbinding her victim, she tucked the rag beneath his head, and ran to alert Jennifer.

oo

Circling an enormous grouping of lilacs and an overgrown gaudy-pink hydrangea bush, Malcolm Barrett hefted his pistol, making for the front entrance of the once stately Victorian. Staggering footsteps advancing against the floorboards of the wide porch caused him to halt in mid-stride. Drawing back, he used the lush bushes as a shield, hunkered down and waited.

A tall thin man, his hand clutched to his bloodstained chest, fingers splayed around a knife's protruding handle, entered Malcolm's line of vision. Clearly in desperate straits, the man rested unsteadily against one of the porch rails, his eyes darting furtively about. Guessing that this then was the illustrious bastard who'd perpetrated O'Neill's demise, Barrett inhaled with satisfaction and prepared to intercept him.

Wellington sniffed the air savoring the heady scent of his wild and fecund garden. There was something soothing about nature's perfume, something that calmed his chaotic mind and lessened the searing pain in his breast, if he were to die, what better setting than this?

The irony of his thoughts drew Damien up short. It had been a lifetime since he'd waxed so poetic, a lifetime catering to distorted needs and perverse desires, fueled by his desolate soul. And, it was that selfsame infinite capacity for inflicting anguish that renewed his waning vigor now.

He'd been deceived. Clearly the O'Connor woman was in league with Jefferson. They'd invaded his carefully disguised idyllic fortress. Need spurned him onward; adrenalin surged though his weakened flesh. And, just as he craved the scent of fear-induced sweat, he hungered for revenge. Grinning manically, he descended the steps. oo

Colonel Samantha Carter maneuvered into position behind the farmhouse, just shy of the rundown shed. Checking her wristwatch she noted the time and covered her ears with both hands, anticipating the signal.

As the echo of the prearranged explosion faded, she watched with keen interest as two men stationed within the small structure threw back the door and exited. Heavily armed, they moved with rapid speed toward the south side of the house.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sam pushed up with her elbows, rising from her prone position with fluid grace and gave chase, her P-90 cocked and ready for action.

Unfortunately, the man trailing behind hesitated and glanced over his shoulder. Shouting a warning, he pivoted and opened fire.

Sam returned fire, bullets whizzing past her ear, she dropped to the ground once more, cradling her weapon.

The man's body jerked back, his arms flying skyward. Collapsing, his stunningly attractive face looked surprised, as a small blossom of blood appeared in the center of his forehead.

Hearing his compatriot's startled cry, the second man spun to one side and snapped off a round of fire. Taking shelter behind a large birdbath, he targeted his assailant's blonde head, peppering her vulnerable position with gunfire.

Sam felt a sharp sting in her left shoulder and returned fire, striking the birdbath and sending shards of white concrete spewing into the air. Rolling to her right, she continued to nail her enemy's position.

As the birdbath shattered, the man shifted, taking a bullet to the stomach. Clutching his wound with both hands, he dropped to his knees, gasping with pain. Angrily refusing to capitulate gracefully, he plucked a grenade from his belt and pulled the pin with his teeth. Guessing the rolling woman's trajectory, he tossed the projectile her way. Then, grinning with macabre satisfaction, gave in to death.

Something landed near Sam's legs. Sparing the object a quick look, she recognized her danger and attempted to roll the opposite way.

Sadly, despite her quick reaction, Sam was unable to fully escape the force of the small bomb's ensuing detonation. As her world shattered into fragments of brilliant light and pain, Sam wondered if Jack would meet her on the other side.

oo

Heading for the rapid pop of gunfire, Jack O'Neill took point. Using hand signals he directed his small band to split into three and surround the area.

Jon chose to shadow his 'uncle' Jack, while Daniel and Teal'c moved off to their left. Nodding for Prost and his little dog to follow him, Draymak veered off O'Neill's right.

Jon and Jack were less than twenty yards from the sounds of gunfire when the second explosion rent the air. Dirt and bits of turf flew skyward, raining down on their heads. Tumbling to the earth, the pair covered up, waiting for the dark rain to stop.

The smoke had barely cleared before both O'Neill's jumped rapidly to their feet and continued to advance. Rounding what remained of the shed their dirt clouded eyes spotted a half-buried figure and halted abruptly. Their linked psyches experienced a shared feeling of sick dread. Resolute, the duo moved forward.

Gulping, Jack recognized a bloody hank of blonde hair crowning the grenade's victim. "Carter!" Dropping on both knees, he desperately began scooping dirt away from her face.

Jon's heart seemed to freeze in his chest. Swallowing back the bile that threatened to choke him, he hovered near Jack's side, weapon extended, eyes alert. 'Is she…gone?' His mind begged otherwise. Somehow saying the words aloud seemed more horrifying than not knowing.

Pressing an urgent hand to Sam's bloodstained throat, Jack waited and prayed.

oo

The man he assumed was the Marquis stepped gingerly out onto the home's front walkway heading away from Barrett's position; sunlight danced over the muzzle of his pistol.

Rising Malcolm trained his weapon on the back of the man's balding pate. "Stop right there, Wellington."

Damien's shoulders straightened with obvious surprise. Grimacing, he did as he was bidden and turned slowly. Narrowing his eyes, he studied his vaguely familiar foe. "Do I know you?"

"It's possible." The sound of nearby gunfire pierced the air as Malcolm eyed the Marquis dispassionately. "Drop the gun."

Retaining his pistol, Damien smiled thinly; his brow rose in resignation. "I suppose there is no possibility that you might be persuaded to…"

"None." Malcolm snapped coldly. "I'm all too aware of you loathsome predilection for torturing those close to you and your innate duplicity, Marquis."

"Ah, you mistake me, sir." Wellington countered mildly his face unperturbed. Flinching slightly, he dropped his eyes. "I will concede that on occasion I've catered to my associates unfortunate…shall we call them, masochistic appetites, but only to please them. So many of the weak-minded seem to find solace in the entrancing arms of pain."

A loud bang, followed by the unexpected sight of Dr. Jackson and Teal'c crashing through a small stand of trees interrupted their repartee.

Distracted, Malcolm glanced toward the pair for a split second. Making his move, the Marquis shot him point-blank and ran to the rear of the house.

The thirty-eight-caliber bullet struck Barrett's chest knocking him to the ground.

oo

Thanks to General O'Neill's exacting method of training, Thompson and Hauser silently dispatched the two men hiding in the barn with unparalleled efficiency. Gunfire, followed shortly by another explosion aided their hunt. Snapping their respective blades back into their sheaths, the capable airmen quit the confines of the barn and moved on toward the house.

Hauser was the first to spot Hailey, as she cautiously climbed up out of the ruined foundation of the house. Gaining Thompson's attention with a hiss, he whistled.

Hailey's head came up sharply, her dirty face grim. Nodding her recognition, she motioned them to join her in the hole and then disappeared back inside.

Mystified, Thompson descended the stairs partially, remaining on guard near the entry, while Hauser ventured deeper into what was left of the cellar.

oo

At first Jack's calloused fingers, resting lightly atop the artery in Carter's smooth neck, were unable to detect a thing. 'Dammit, O'Neill, try again!' Jon's voice echoed in his head urgently. Terrified, Jack pressed deeper.

A weak erratic thrill pulsed tenaciously against his fingers.

Overwhelmed, Jack closed his eyes. Two minds released a sigh of infinite gratitude, each tumultuously relieved and frightened at the same time.

Jack reached for the radio tucked into the left breast pocket of his Omega vest, clicking the channel open with his thumb. "Draymak, do you read?"

Jon took a minute to verify that the two bodies lying nearby weren't a threat and then headed back to help Jack uncover Carter's injured body.

The radio crackled. A deep voice responded. "This is Draymak..."

"Eagle down!" Frightened, Jack masked his trepidation with impatience. "Get Prost over here on the double!"

"Roger that, sir. On our way" Draymak's disembodied voice responded grimly.

oo

Their paths diverging, Teal'c left Daniel Jackson behind as he took off after Special Agent Malcolm Barrett's attacker.

Daniel knelt beside the downed special agent, his forehead wrinkled with concern. There were no telltale signs of a wound staining Barrett's clothing. "Barrett, can you hear me?"

Inhaling sharply, Malcolm's eyelids fluttered and then opened to reveal a pair of unfocused pupils. Taking another deep breath, he focused on Jackson and nodded.

Coughing, Malcolm ripped open his shirt revealing the bulletproof vest beneath. Running a hand over his aching chest, he fingered the small-flattened projectile imbedded there. Realization flooded his face as he stood up. "Wellington's getting away…"

"I doubt it." Offering Barrett a helping hand, Daniel smiled grimly. "Teal'c is tracking him."

Finding his lost handgun in the deep grass, Malcolm offered Jackson a skeptical look. "Don't you think we should back him up?"

"Nope." Knowing Teal'c he'd prefer to exercise his own brand of justice alone. Crossing his arms over his chest, Daniel shook his head. "I think we should look for Hailey and Mrs. O'Connor. That explosion was…"

"Planned," Barrett interjected, rubbing his sore chest. Man, getting shot sure packed a wallop! "It was our signal to move in."

"Ours, as in yours and Sam's?" Daniel asked harshly, disapproval marring his brow. "I'm surprised at you Barrett; I thought you special agent types practiced more prudence."

"Save it, Jackson. I've read your files; remember?" Malcolm snorted, tilting his head to one side. "Look, let's find Mrs. O'Connor and the lieutenant, we can argue the merits of this operation later."

"Got any idea where the two are?" Daniel subsided coolly. Squinting, he pursed his lips.

"Affirmative." Adjusting his clothing, Malcolm grimaced and moved off.

oo

Ripping a portion of her blouse free, Sassy climbed over the scattered debris making her way to the cracked sink she'd noted earlier. The taps were rusty, but with some little effort she managed to elicit a trickle of cold water from the ancient pipes and drench the scrap of linen.

Returning to her victim's side, she pressed the cool cloth against the lump forming on the side of his head, gently patting his cheek. "Forgive me Ned I thought you were one of Wellington's villains."

Still fighting his stupor, Drew's lips twitched. 'Villain? What the…She thought he, the NID Dudley Do-Right, was Snidely Whiplash?' Feeling like he'd just slammed into oncoming traffic without his bike helmet, Ned swallowed back the nausea that threatened to make him hurl.

Realizing his need, Sassy gently eased his head into her lap, mopping his brow. "Take some deeps breaths dear, and think lovely thoughts."

ooo

Airman Hauser followed Lieutenant Hailey into the dim recesses of the destroyed cellar. At first, he was unable to see more than the residual spots one endures coming indoors from the bright sunlight while their pupils dilate to accommodate the lack of illumination. A soft moan near his feet stopped him cold. "I'm glad to see you're intact lieutenant, but where is Mrs.…"

"I'm fine Philip, never fear." Sassy's voice informed him jauntily. "Unfortunately, Ned needs your assistance…. He's…a bit worse for wear."

Finally able to focus, Hauser's eyes widened as he took in the tableau sprawled out at his feet.

Special Agent Drew, his semi-conscious head nestled in Mrs. O'Connor's seated lap, moaned softly. Kneeling beside them, Hailey was busy lacing Drew's boots. Glancing up, she noted Hauser's gaping mouth. "Don't just stand there airman, help me get his man up!"

"Ma'am!" Hauser snapped, bending to lend a hand.

Together, he and the lieutenant assisted the still vaguely senseless agent to his feet.

A sudden shaft of sunlight cascaded over the lieutenant's burnished head, drawing the airman's attention. Beneath its fine coating of dust, Hailey's face appeared strained and pale. "Lieutenant, maybe you should take point and let Thompson help with Drew here."

Jennifer's drawn face flushed with irate denial. Despite her body's liberal supply of adrenalin, and the dextrose solution Sassy had so thoughtfully provided, Hailey was still fighting the effects of the drugs she'd been given and her meager reserves were waning fast.

'It doesn't matter whose right, Lieutenant.' General O'Neill's voice seemed to echo in her head. Razor sharp grief threatened to rob Jennifer of her last vestiges of stamina.

Emulating the general's example, she used her anguish to fuel her rage experiencing a surge of renewed vigor. Biting back a retort, she relieved Thompson of his P-90, motioning for him to lend Hauser a hand.

Keeping a sharp eye, Hailey climbed the steps. Running a steady hand over her clammy neck, she ducked into the daylight.

oo

Flinching with each pop of gunfire, Kris paced the gravel road cursing like a sailor and bemoaning the general's orders to stay put. Okay, so technically she was a nurse, that didn't mean she was any less of a warrior! Fingering the radio Draymak had the foresight to add to his automobile's mini-arsenal, she itched to make contact, but ingrained military discipline stayed her tense fingers. Running a hand through her hair, she kicked the bumper of Draymak's Jeep and screamed with frustration.

Following the distant sounds of battle, Eisley was the first to spot Captain Martin. Accelerating, he maneuvered the vehicle alongside her parked Jeep and braked, sending the gravel beneath their wheels flying.

As the two military Jeeps screeched to a halt, Kris recognized Major Kearney and straightened up. "Major Kearney!" Kris saluted her face tense.

"Captain." Kearny acknowledged curtly, jumping from the Jeep. "What the hell is going on, Martin? I thought you were back at the base…"

Grimacing, Kris licked her lips and fingered the small sidearm tucked in her jeans. "I was ordered to stay here and wait…"

The pop of gunfire ended abruptly with the sound of a grenade's detonation. Cringing, Kris yanked her sidearm free and released the safety.

Turning his head toward the blast, the major's blue eyes searched the sky, noting a cloud of smoke billowing on their flank. "Did Colonel Carter give you that order, Captain?" Kearney tossed over his shoulder, motioning his team to fan out and head for the tree line. Pulling an extra vest from the Jeep, he tossed it to the captain and made to follow his men.

"Not exactly, sir." Catching the vest, Kris avoided his gaze, slipped it on and followed his lead.

Breaking into a lope, he spared her a quizzical glance. Both their radios clicked. Depressing the receiver, the major was stunned to hear the late General Jack O'Neill's very distinctive voice report via code that a colonel was injured. Then shortly demand someone named Draymak bring Prost to the downed officer's aid. Speculating that the injured officer was Colonel Carter, Kearney swallowed his questions and picked up the pace.oo

Jack and Jon carefully dug Carter's body from the shallow crater. Her head and torso were covered with a thin coating of loose soil and sod, mixed with a staggering amount of fresh blood.

Sam's face was torn and oozing. A gory bullet hole in her exposed shoulder bled rhythmically, despite the thick mud encrusting it.

Pulling a bulky field dressing from his Omega vest, Jack pressed it firmly against the hideous wound, tying it tightly around her armpit. Terrified, he checked her pulse once more, sighing with relief when his slippery fingers located the faint thrill. Ripping open Sam's vest, he gratefully noted her body armor. "That a girl, Sam…"

Urgently, using both his hands to free Sam's leg, Jon silently recited the Lord's Prayer. Moving an exceptionally large chunk of turf, he gasped.

The explosion's resulting shrapnel had reduced Sam's lower left leg to a bloody mass of torn flesh, exposing the main artery. Uncovered, the wounded vessel spewed its life sustaining fluid skyward with every desperate beat of her heart.

"Crap, this is bad Jack, very bad!" Pulling off his belt, Jon wrapped it around her slender thigh and pulled tight, creating a tourniquet.

Jack clicked his radio. "Draymak, Prost, where the hell are you?"

Draymak's breathless voice responded. "Sorry General…we've…" Gunfire interrupted the transmission, and then static filled the air.

Sucking in a strangled breath, Jack instinctively used their unique psychic conduit to connect with his duplicate. 'We've gotta do something right now or we're gonna lose her!'

They were fresh out of options. Carter's life was worth the risk of exposing their talents.

Jon silently concurred. Laying both his hands on Sam's shattered leg, he closed his eyes.

Jack rested his shaking right hand directly over the ugly pulsating wound in Sam's shoulder. Placing his left against her faintly beating heart, he denied his fear, emptied his mind and allowed the power within him to swell, adding its strength to that of his clone.

Blocking out his surroundings, Jon linked his mind with Jack's, retreating to that place within their collective consciousness where they'd hidden the Ancients' knowledge.

oo

Coming up out of a shallow ravine, over a rise, Kearney, Martin and the major's six-man team hunkered down. Approximately fifty yards ahead, two men and what appeared to be a dog, sprawled out in the deep grass, behind a short woodpile, near the southwest corner of the farm's main house.

Pulling a small spyglass from his vest, Kearney surveyed the scene. A sniper, his rifle protruding from the window of an old-fashioned outhouse, had the pair pinned down.

Recognizing the trapped men, Kris clutched the major's sleeve. "That's Colonel Draymak and Dr. Jeff Prost."

"One of them has taken a hit." Kearney whispered tersely, passing her the spyglass. Pointing at the sniper, he inclined his head.

Already in position, Eisley returned the nod. Closing his left eye, he peered through his weapon sight and waited.

Kris trained the glass on the ensnared men. Jeff, Mischief's tiny body scrunched protectively against him, was lying on his side behind the pile of kindling. Furiously pressing a field dressing against a motionless Draymak's left shoulder with one hand, he attempted to return fire with the other. Clenching her fists, Kris licked the sweat from her upper lip and ground her teeth.

As the sniper leaned forward to take another shot, his head appeared fleetingly within the small crescent-shaped window. Eisley squeezed off two shots in rapid succession, striking the assailant's temple. The man's head jerked back and he disappeared from view.

oo

The crack of gunfire halted Hailey's progress. Hanging back within the shattered remains of the storm cellar opening, she scanned the landscape. Catching sight of Daniel, accompanied by one of the men who'd escorted Sassy to the general's funeral, she moved forward into the sunlight.

Hustling to her side Daniel grinned, eyes crinkling. "Good to see you in one piece, Lieutenant."

Two airmen assisted a rather wobbly Ned Drew to the surface, followed closely by the welcome sight of Mrs. Sassy O'Connor's spirited countenance. Throwing her arms wide, the lady pulled the stunned archeologist close and hugged the stuffing out of him. "Look whose talking!"

Desperately attempting to inhale a strangled breath, Daniel gasped. "Gah! Ah…Sass, I can't breathe!"

"What the hell happened to you, Drew?" Barrett snapped, arching a brow.

Sassy released Danny, eyes flashing. Spinning on her heel, she wagged her index finger. "Malcolm, I will not tolerate that tone. After all, Jennifer and I had no way of knowing it was Ned we were bashing on the head."

Barrett's eyebrows shot upward. Biting his lower lip, he stifled a laugh. Humiliated, Ned's face flushed scarlet. Closing his eyes, he fought another bout of nausea.

Turning toward the echoing sounds of gunfire, Jennifer interrupted. "Where is Colonel Carter?" Seven worried pairs of eyes shifted her way. Flaring her nostrils, Jennifer nodded curtly. "Right. Might I suggest we adjourn to the battlefield and back her up?"

Sassy took Ned's arm, relieving the two airmen of their burden. Waving her hand dismissively, she ordered. "You go on ahead and assist Samantha. I'll look after Ned." Watching them swiftly move off, she led Drew to a small bench nearby; then, brandishing her firearm, stood guard.

oo

Jaffa discipline and training aided Teal'c as he tracked the man who'd attacked Special Agent Malcolm Barrett. His prey was both determined and visibly unsteady. Thus, Teal'c bided his time and trailed his quarry, confident that prolonging the hunt would be beneficial.

Damien Wellington snaked along the northwest edge of the main yard, using the deep grass and unruly shrubbery as cover. Still supporting the knife that had cleaved the main muscle of his chest, he ignored the blood seeping between his outspread fingers saturating his shirt, elation negating his pain. He'd made it to the rear of the large Victorian unchallenged. While his men dealt with the inept intruders he would make his way to his hidden vehicle and escape.

His soaring confidence took an unexpected beating when he encountered the inert bodies of two of his men crumpled lifeless and staring, amongst the unkempt remains of a once tidy garden. Falling to his knees, the quivering Marquis used the back of his gun hand to mop the trickle of sweat that stung his bleary eyes and robbed them of focus.

The recent welcome tune of intermittent gunfire faded away, replaced by ominous silence. Uncertainty left Damien breathless and giddy.

Suddenly the pain in his chest increased, his muscles trembled with fatigue. Stumbling to his feet, he advanced several more yards, fighting the vertigo and darkness that threatened to overtake him. Someone, or something, stirred along the outer vestiges of his peripheral vision. Pivoting, his dim eyes alighted on two blurry, yet strangely familiar forms.

Could it be? Was he hallucinating? Not one, but two O'Neills knelt over the body of a woman, their eyes closed, weapons neglected; exposed and unaware. Triumphant glee suffused Wellington's weakened flesh, leaving him giddy with anticipation. Raising his pistol, he trained it on the reckless pair, grinning sardonically.

Teal'c's keen eyes noted the uncommon presence of the vulnerable O'Neills moments before his prey. Recognizing the injured body to be that of Colonel Carter, his carefully banked need for revenge flared. Consequently, as the man lifted his weapon, Teal'c nimbly closed the gap between them, silently snapping the man's neck with his skillful hands.

Tossing the carcass aside, Teal'c advanced, hovering protectively over the threesome. Lost in concentration, neither O'Neill acknowledged his arrival. Refusing to look directly at the carnage that had once been a woman he admired, the sage Jaffa denied his urge to offer assistance. Scanning the area for further peril, he remained on the alert and waited.

O'Neill's weathered face appeared untroubled; Jon's restful and innocent. Slowly a faint light coalesced beneath their ministering hands. Spreading outward, the glow flittered over Colonel Carter's broken form. Pulsing upward the light engulfed all three completely.

Raising a hand to protect his dazzled eyes, Teal'c held his breath, heartened. Time stood still. A restless breeze ruffled a small majestic copse of nearby trees. Slowly the gentle wind became a mighty gale, tearing at the Jaffa's uniform, stinging his eyes with small bits of debris. The glow increased in intensity obliterating his vision. Then, suddenly the storm ceased. The light faded. Silence reigned.

Both O'Neills remained immobile, their expressions tranquil. Teal'c remained watchful.

Slowly, Jon opened his eyes hungrily scanning Carter's legs. The sight of her mended flesh creased his unlined face with joy. 'Hot damn, Jack! Open your eyes!'

Jack's deep-set eyelids fluttered. His tongue slid nervously over his lower lip. 'Don't rush me, will ya?' Clenching his jaw, he cracked his left lid allowing his narrow vision to caress Carter's upper body.

Sam's face and uniform remained mud-covered, bloody and disheveled, but her injuries were gone. Jack's eyes burned with hot tears. Speechless, he swallowed hard, gently fingering her unmarred cheek.

Jon's gaze skittered upward. Locking eyes with Teal'c, he shrugged, offering a lopsided smile. "Hey T…been there long?"

"Indeed I have, Jon O'Neill." Lifting his chin, Teal'c blinked back the moisture that suddenly clouded his dedicated vision, his lush lips curving upward with an answering smile.

oo

Ignoring the major's cautious order, Kris ran full-tilt down the embankment and collapsed beside Prost. Gently pushing his bloodstained hands aside, she took over the task of applying pressure to the colonel's wound, muttering an oath. "Hell, Jeff."

Preoccupied with Draymak's condition, Jeff wiped absently at a thin rivulet of blood above his left eyebrow and offered her a distracted smile of welcome. "We need more field dressings…the colonel's lost a good deal of blood." Glancing sideways, his anxious eyes addressed her armed escort. "Colonel Carter is lying out there somewhere wounded."

"We'll find her, Doc." Kearney barked. Squinting at the unknown doctor, he huffed. "Emerson! Assist the captain." Lightly smacking Kris's shoulder, he motioned for his team to continue on. "As soon as we've secured the area you owe me one hell of an explanation, Martin."

While the major and the rest of the team moved off to secure the perimeter and search for Colonel Carter, Emerson dropped to his knees ripping open his field pack. "How long has he been down?"

"Not sure…I lost track…fighting off the bad guys'..." Prost stammered, shaking his head. Crouching alongside him, Mischief whimpered sympathetically.

Using her elbow to continue applying direct pressure to the wound, Kris pulled an intravenous set-up from Emerson's medical field pack and began priming the tubing. "Contact the SGC and get a medical chopper in the air, Sergeant."

"Understood." Hitting the speed dial on his cell, he propped it between his shoulder and chin, pulling a portable oxygen set-up from his pack. "Command, this is Emerson, eagle down, I repeat, eagle down. Request medical evacuation, STAT!"

oo

Standing by, anticipating just such a call, Sergeant Walter Davis shifted into overdrive. Taking a few moments to ascertain their needs and whereabouts, he alerted Dr. Carson's medical crew; then bustled off to update the temporary base commander, Major Paul Davis.

oo

A familiar drab blur of uniforms brought Hailey up short. Kneeling, she signaled the men behind her to find cover, and took a chance. "This is Lieutenant Hailey, United States Air Force, stand fast and identify yourself."

"Lower your weapon, Hailey. It's Major Kearney." The major's voice responded in an amused tone.

Jennifer's tense shoulders relaxed. Rising, she lowered her P-90. "Understood, sir." The major and five of his security men rapidly overtook her little bands' position.

Taking in the sight of his two errant airmen, Jackson and the special agent, Kearny frowned. "Where are Mrs. O'Connor and Colonel Carter?"

"Mrs. O'Connor is safe." Barrett replied in a steely tone. "Afraid we lost track of the colonel."

Kearney's lips thinned. "And just where would Teal'c be, Jackson?"

Owl eyed, Daniel shrugged.

"I see." Kearney bit out, his eyes flashing. "Okay people, spread out and find them."

oo

General O'Neill's voice calling her name penetrated the velvety darkness, demanding compliance. Struggling, Sam cracked open her deep blue eyes, fighting the bright sun's glare. Just as she'd hoped, Jack's handsome face greeted her. Reaching up, she traced his sensual lower lip with a muddy finger. "So then, I guess heaven isn't a myth."

Jack's heart turned over. Slipping into his familiar disguise, he snorted, wagging his eyebrows with a crooked grin. "Well Carter, that all depends on your definition of heaven."

"Anyplace you are is paradise, Jack." Smiling, she settled back in his arms. Drained and confused, she closed her weary eyes giving in to the balm of deep sleep.

oo

Moving toward the remains of what looked like a shed; Jennifer was the first to spot Jon O'Neill, hands covered with drying blood, supporting his P-90. Thinking the crimson gore was his; she rushed forward and clutched his arm. "Jon, where were you hit?"

Jon's grimy face spit with a wide grin. "I'm fine, Jennifer, no worries." Noting Major Kearney and his contingent trailing closely behind the lieutenant, he sobered, blocking their way. "Hold up, Major. There's something you should all know before going any further."

"Just what would that be, kid?" Narrowing his eyes, Kearney looked the lad over. Jon appeared to be uninjured and intact. So then, exactly whose blood was spattered liberally over his fatigues and hands? Sucking in a breath, he demanded, "Have you seen Colonel Carter?"

"We have indeed, Major Kearney." Teal'c's booming voice sounded directly behind Jon's position.

"Colonel Carter is suffering the effects of a blow to her head." The big Jaffa stepped gingerly from behind the shed, cradling the unconscious officer in his massive arms.

Daniel rushed to the big man's side. Swallowing hard, he ran concerned hands over the multiple rents and bloodstained holes in Sam's uniform. There were no correlating wounds; exchanging a knowing look with Teal'c, he cast a grateful smile Jon's way.

Kearney's tense face relaxed slightly. "So whose blood…"

"Ah, yeah…about that…it's like this…" Shifting his shoulders uncomfortably, Jon's brows rose and fell. "The general…that is…my uncle Jack…"

"Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated." O'Neill quipped stepping forward from the shadow of the shed.

Glancing distastefully at his own blood-covered countenance, he shrugged, sighing dramatically. "Taking out the bad guys can be so very messy, don't ya think?"

The collective group remained silent, astonished by his miraculous appearance, mouths agape, eyes wide.

Hailey was the first to recover. Never a slouch in the brains department, she searched Jon's face, finding the truth. Dropping her hands, she stepped back, her expression inscrutable. "Yes, sir, General, very messy." She agreed coolly.

Squaring her shoulders, Jennifer stared blankly ahead. "May I suggest that I impart the glad tidings to Mrs. O'Connor, General? The shock might be a bit much for a woman her age."

Jack's bushy eyebrows climbed, furrowing his brow. Coughing slightly, he acquiesced. "Handle it, Lieutenant."

"Sir." Hailey saluted formally and then took off, heading back to the place they'd left Sassy and Drew.

'Crap!' Kicking a stone with his boot, Jon released an inaudible sigh of frustration and watched her leave.

'What the hell are you waiting for kid, an engraved invitation?' Jack's mind prodded. 'Look, for better or worse you've been given a second chance – don't waste it!'

'More than likely she'll kick me in the ass.' Jon's psyche snorted. 'Ah well, nothing ventured…' Smiling wryly, he straightened his spine and trailed after her.

"Has anybody seen Jefferson?" Barrett's eyes wandered over the company thoughtfully.

"Jefferson?" Kearney thundered, eyes flashing. "You mean to tell me that besides these two," He paused, piercing Hauser and Thompson with his glare, "Ben Jefferson was involved in this screwed up affair?"

Hauser and Thompson shifted restlessly, exchanging a nervous look. "Yes, sir." They piped up as one.

"Involved?" Barrett bit out. "He instigated it. Jefferson located Hailey and alerted the colonel. The fact is he concocted the whole thing."

A rapid aerial chopping noise heralded the approach of the medical helicopter.

Jack's head whipped around. "Who?" He squinted quizzically.

Understanding the terse inquiry, Kearney reported promptly. "A Colonel Draymak, sir. He and a Dr. Prost were pinned down by sniper fire… he took one to the shoulder…Captain Martin and Sergeant Emerson, are assisting Prost with him now, General."

"Understood." Jack nodded satisfied. "Teal'c, get Carter to the chopper," O'Neill ordered, waving a dismissive hand. Tossing his head toward the major, he continued, "Kearney, fan out, find Jefferson and secure the area."

Jack snagged the back of the retreating Jackson's jacket. "Hold up a minute Daniel."

Casting a regretful look toward Teal'c's retreating form, Daniel halted and fell into step beside his friend. Turning, his animated face settled into a cordial mask of benign interest. Crossing his arms, he arched a brow. "Hey, Jack…what's new?"

Sauntering along, Jack shrugged. "Oh the usual, smarmy bad guys, intrigue…I got banged up a bit…" His voice climbed an octave.

"Yeah, about that, Jack…" Rubbing his chin, Daniel cast him a sidelong stare. "You want to explain how it is you were dead one minute and tip-top the next…I mean, we buried you Jack, had a funeral and everything…"

"Really?" Jack asked mildly, evading the question. "Who gave the eulogy?"

Inhaling, Daniel held his breath for a second and then released a sigh of resignation. "You're not gonna tell me, are you Jack?"

"Tell you what, Danny?" Jack responded, assuming his most effective method of diversion – an air of complete density.

Smiling fondly, Daniel cast his eyes skyward. "Never mind, Jack. It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back." Jack admitted quietly, patting Daniel's shoulder lightly.

oo

Carson and his team assumed Draymak's care with the fluidity of a classical ballet. Jeff, refusing to fully relinquish his responsibility, brushed aside Kris's attempt to attend to his injuries. Requesting Emerson remand custody of Mischief to O'Neill, he climbed aboard the chopper. Carson, content with Captain Martin's ready acceptance and the man's dedication to his patient, tolerated Prost's presence without comment.

However the sight of Colonel Carter lying limply in Teal'c's gentle embrace, her uniform in bloody tatters, pallid flesh contrasting glaringly with his ebony bulk, gave him pause.

Teal'c, noting the telltale signs of dread flash over Carson's carefully impassive face, shook his head, lips twitching upward slightly. Shouting to be heard over the helicopter's engine, the Jaffa was succinct, as he transferred the colonel into the awaiting arms of one of the medics. "A blow to the head…Colonel Carter regained consciousness briefly…"

Lifting his chin, Carson acknowledged the information. The two seasoned fighters exchanged an eloquent gaze, each respecting the battles the other shouldered willingly.

Concentrating on the voice buzzing in his headset, one of the crewmen nodded. Yelling, he advised, "Tell Major Kearney a second medical chopper is two clicks out…we're airborne in thirty seconds…"

"I shall." Ducking, Teal'c rejoined the cleanup efforts.

oo

Creeping stealthily along the dim hallway of the oversized farmhouse, Barrett's searching gaze alighted on an uneven trail of bright red droplets. Tossing a meaningful look Thompson's way, he inclined his head indicating the bloody pattern.

Thompson, with Hauser minding his six, nodded grimly and mounted the stairs. Using the gory breadcrumbs as their guide, moving silently upward, they located its conclusion - a small crimson puddle near the top of the stairs.

Squatting, Barrett fingered one of the drops at the base of the steps. Detecting a set of blood-tinged boot prints, he tracked them along the Persian carpet and out the door, wondering if they belonged to Wellington.

Thompson and Hauser continued searching, checking each room for a hidden enemy, or signs of life. Drawn by the sounds of running water their first stop was the bath. Revolted by their find, they exchanged a look.

Two bodies, thrown haphazardly into the deep tub, presented a gruesome illustration of their killer's skill and lack of compunction. The pair increased their vigilance, moving rapidly throughout the second floor, finding it empty. Meanwhile, Barrett's continued exploration of the first floor was proving to be equally fruitless.

A muffled creak of the floorboards alerted the wary agent. Spinning, he quickly dropped his weapon, recognizing Thompson's shocked face. "Do you have a death wish, airman?"

Wide-eyed, Thompson squeaked. "Sorry, sir. Other than a couple of stiffs, the upstairs is clean."

"Jefferson?" Barrett inquired sliding his handgun into its holster.

"No sign of him." Hauser replied joining them. Thumbing his radio, the airman connected with the major. "Sir, Hauser here. The house is secure, has anyone located Jefferson?"

"Negative, Hauser." Kearney responded flatly.

"I suspect he's long gone, gentlemen." Malcolm's mouth twisted with distaste. "And, I highly doubt his real name was Ben Jefferson."

oo

Overhearing the major's exchange with Hauser,Jack waylaid Kearney, requesting a full report. Although his connection to Jon left him cognizant of many of the events of the past several days, there were still quite a few pieces of the puzzle still missing. Verification of Jefferson's true motives and identity now reigned supreme among them.

Your typical base commander would feel more than a measure of disquiet over that little tidbit alone; however, General Jack O'Neill, ex-special operative, had rarely been accused of being ordinary.

Once he heard the major out, O'Neill planned to debrief each and every person involved in this whole convoluted escapade, hoping their unique perspectives would neatly fill in the blanks.

Grateful as he was to have the general back, Kearney was all too aware that his information was sketchy at best. Nevertheless, he dutifully imparted all he knew.

Resting atop an old tree stump, stroking the sheltie's glossy fur, O'Neill kept an eye peeled on the clean up efforts around them, offering little commentary. However, details of the sniper's demise prompted a snide, "Nothing like a crapshoot, eh Kearny?" and a ready smirk.

"Yes, sir. Good one, General." The major grinned. "You might even say he crapped out."

"Yep, he was shit out of luck!" Jack snorted lightly, finding release in their shared brand of inane humor. Sighting Sassy's lively approach, he grew pensive.

oooo

Throughout most of Kearney's litany, Jack's peripheral consciousness remained in touch with his counterpart. Therefore, he was privy to Jon's contrite confession to the two women that it had been his idea to fake Jack's death. While Hailey's first response was silent simmering anger, Sassy's was far more benevolent.

In point of fact, the sagacious and magnanimous senior sanctioned Jon's actions. Hugging the startled stripling, ardently bussing his cheek, she whispered in his ear, "It was a good plan, Jon. Knowing your uncle's penchant for keeping secrets, I should have expected as much. Has he ever told you just how we met?"

Holding him at arms length, her doting eyes noted the sparkle of confirming laughter in his. Smiling, Sassy wiped an errant tear from her dirt-streaked cheek. "I see that he has, you're every bit the rapscallion he is aren't you!"

Jon's answering grin reflected both respect and admiration. "Yes, ma'am, I guess I am." Gazing over Sassy's head, catching sight of Jennifer's rigid stance, his grin dissipated. "I wish everyone had your vision, Sass."

"Give her time, son." Sassy advised affectionately. "Now, I'm off to find that rascally uncle of yours." Casting a quick smile of encouragement Jennifer's way, she bustled off.

Clearing his throat, Jon squared his shoulders. 'Ah, Jack…'

'Got ya, kid. Good luck.' Beating a hasty retreat, Jack severed his unique connection to Jon. Allowing his duplicate to privately confront Hailey's anger gave him an almost fatherly sense of achievement.

Once Thor altered Jon's body making it possible for his clone to survive, he had distanced himself in order to maintain his sanity. Wondering at his lack of foresight, Jack realized that he'd underestimated the kid's, well actually his own, exceptional ability to adapt. After all he'd spent most of his career wearing the flexible mask of stealth and command. Still, the kid's seamless transition made him feel strangely proud and just a tad envious.

As for Jon and Hailey's burgeoning attraction, well it freaked him out a bit. Frankly, the concept was rather hinky. However, it really wasn't up to him. Well okay, on some level it was, but on this matter at least, Jack planned to use his reliable old safety net – a façade of complete ignorance.

ooo

Seeing Jonathan perched on an old log, stroking a small pup, his face grinning boyishly, Sassy's heart filled with unabashed jubilation. And for a moment, she just stood still, drinking him in.

The second his face sobered registering her presence, Sassy's need to touch him and make sure he was truly whole, herded her forward.

Jack stood up; his sable eyes alight with regret and affectionate concern. "Are you all right, Sass?"

Wordlessly clasping his tall sinewy body to her ample bosom, Sassy held on tight. Trembling uncontrollably, she refused to cry, knowing her sobs would cause his carefully shielded heart pain.

Feeling inadequate and awkward, Jack exchanged a look with the major and stroked her hair. "It's okay Sass, everything's okay."

Refusing to release him fully, Sassy stepped back. "Almost everything." Looking up into his rugged and much beloved face, she smirked. "There's still an unresolved matter I'd like to discuss with you, Jonathan."

"Only one?" Jack chuckled, relieved.

"Ah, excuse me, General." Kearney cleared his throat.

"Oh dear, I've interrupted." Relinquishing her hold, Sassy moved aside.

Flushing, Kearney stammered. "Not at all ma'am…I…sorry Mrs. O'Connor, I was just…"

Waving a dismissive hand, Sassy refused his apology. "Nonsense! My concern can wait. Jonathan, we'll chat later." Pivoting spryly, she strode off.

Outranked, Jack agreed. "Ma'am, yes ma'am!" Sitting back down on the stump, eyes twinkling paradoxically, he drew the little dog still waiting patiently at his feet, into his lap. "You were saying, Major?"

oooooooo

**_Epilogue:_**

Camped impatiently beside Sam's bed, Daniel set aside the folder marked classified, removed his eyeglasses and stretched. It had been two very eventful days since he and the others had gone on their rescue mission. How much longer could she sleep?

According to Dr. Brightman, Sam's head injury was minor. However, the battered condition of the colonel's uniform and unexplained anemia led the good doctor to suspect that the grenade had done quite a bit more damage.

Unable to find any additional wounds, Brightman wisely restrained her questing zeal. Mutely instilling three units of whole blood into Colonel Carter's veins, she reported that given some rest Sam should be fine. Yet, while Ned Drew was discharged, Prost returned to civilian life and Draymak steadily recuperated, Sam slept on.

"Maybe you should get some rest, Jackson." Carson muttered, pulling the colonel's chart from its holder at the end of the bed, he scanned the corpsman's last entry. "Her vitals are normal…it would appear that she's just sleeping."

"I don't understand it, how long can one person sleep?" Sighing, Daniel slipped his spectacles into his pocket and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why doesn't she wake up?"

"Maybe she isn't aware that she can." Carson shrugged. "Have you tried calling her name?"

"Huh?" Perplexed, Daniel's mouth gaped.

Shaking his head, Kit bent his tall frame and whispered. "Time to wake up, Colonel."

Sam's eyelids fluttered slightly, but still she slept.

Encouraged, Daniel gave it a try. "Sam, for the love of God, will you please wake up?" He shouted.

Sam's eyes popped open. "Jeez, Daniel, where's the fire?" She demanded blearily. Realization exploded in her head, eliciting a smile. "Hey, I'm not dead."

"Nope." Daniel grinned exchanging a bemused look with Dr. Carson. "You're one-hundred percent."

"And, if you'll excuse me, I have a couple of real patients who need my attention." Snapping the colonel's chart shut, Carson left the pair alone.

"What happened...Daniel, is Hailey…was Sassy able…wait a minute…there was a grenade…I was blown up…" Looking him over, Sam noted the absence of injury. "And you were shot!"

"Would you believe I heal fast?" Daniel ventured, pursing his lips.

Rubbing a hand over her unruly hair, Sam refused to be patronized. "What the heck is going on, Daniel Jackson?"

Hoping to lighten the mood, Daniel employed a very O'Neill-like approach. "Okay, okay…First or 'A'… both Sassy and Hailey are fine. Two or 'B', the grenade blast gave you a nasty knock to the head."

Holding his left hand up, he dramatically folded one finger at a time, ticking each item off. "Three or…"

"Stop it." Sam eyes filled with unshed tears.

Biting her trembling lower lip, she stifled a sob. "He was there…I was dead and… hell, I guess it was all a dream… Daniel, I saw Jack."

"Yes, Sam you did." Daniel told her kindly. Smiling gently, he elaborated. "Sam, we all did. Jack is fine."

Searching his face, Sam's eyes lit with hope. "Jack, I mean, General O'Neill is alive?"

"Alive and currently reaming the head of the CIA's ass." Picking up the discarded folder, Daniel pulled his chair closer.

Flipping the file open, he laid it in her lap. "Do you want the edited version or would you prefer to read it yourself?"

"I prefer the unvarnished truth." Sniffing, she closed the folder, offering him an expectant look of chagrin. "Spit it out Daniel…I'm not in the mood."

Handing her a glass of water, Daniel took a deep breath. "Okay, then…" Over the course of the next half hour, he filled her in on the files contents.

Daniel started his saga with Jon's plot to protect Jack, interweaving it with the culmination of events at the Marquis' hideout.

Sam's face registered varying emotions, but throughout the litany she remained mute attempting to listen and digest the fact that Jack was safe.

It turned out that the man they'd known as Ben Jefferson had simply vanished. However, he'd evidently forwarded a thick packet of information. Labeled urgent, delivered by special messenger service and addressed cryptically to 'the late General J. O'Neill,' the contents underlined the fact that Jefferson had access to sensitive information.

Apparently, GEOM was a pseudonym for a company involved in the study of geometric progression, as in DNA code. One of their directors had gotten wind of the O'Neills' unique abilities, presumably from Kinsey or his people, and decided to exploit them. That director had been mysteriously found dead in his office mere hours after Jefferson disappeared.

According to the coroner: the man, Miles Pendleton, had been brutally dispatched, his carotid artery severed by a serrated blade, one consistent with those issued to military personnel.

The information Jefferson provided caused more than a ripple effect, as did the unwelcome interference of the CIA, which had nearly cost Jon his life. As a result, the entire SGC security protocol was being overhauled.

Postulating that he was finished, Daniel paused.

"And just where is the duplicitous miniature O'Neill now?" Throwing back the linens covering her legs, Sam's stormy eyes flashed. "Seeing as how **he** is not my commanding officer, I'm gonna throttle him!"

"Whoa, settle down, Sam he's gone." Daniel informed her quietly. "And I have to admit, his actions were sound."

"Gone?" Sam echoed dubiously, her anger unappeased. "His actions were sound? Are you out of your mind! For God's sake, we buried the general! We held a funeral! When I think of the pain it caused…the entire base was in mourning and what about poor Sassy…"

"She took him with her." Daniel interjected silencing her tirade.

Watching Sam's face melt with confusion, he continued, "Sassy insisted that a boy of Jon's years needed more supervision than a general in Jack's position was capable of giving, wisely pointing out the danger he'd endured as a result. And, Jack conceded that granting her custody of his 'nephew' seemed like a perfect answer. In fact, both O'Neills found the idea sound."

"Jon left with Sassy this morning." Folding his arms smugly behind his head, Daniel grinned. "You've got to admit Sam, it's a nifty alternative to protective custody, after all, despite his… ah, history, legally Jon is still just a kid. Besides, I think he was tired of being so alone."

Sam's mouth gaped. That an O'Neill would allow himself to be remanded into the care of an elderly woman seemed, well, hell it was science fiction!

"Oh, I almost forgot." Fishing in his pocket, Daniel pulled out a crumpled envelope.

"Jon left you a note." Passing it to her he stood up and moved the chair back against the wall. "I'm gonna head to the mess and get you something to eat, I'll bet you're hungry."

It was addressed simply to Carter, in an all too familiar hand. Ripping it open, Sam scanned its contents.

_Dear Sam;_

_About now I'm sure you want to wring my neck, but after you've cooled off I think you'll see things my way. _

_Hurting any of you was the last thing I wanted. However, it was imperative that we catch the scum-sucking bastard who hurt Jack, threatened my life and frankly, disrupted my oh so very tranquil sojourn into adolescent academia. _

_In the end we accomplished that goal. I expect you will understand and forgive Teal'c's willing involvement…Jaffa revenge and all that. As for Sass, well she needs me._

_I leave Jack in your capable care. Remember he's not as tough as he seems. Don't let that dense façade he hides behind bamboozle you. _

_See ya around, Carter. Jon_

__

Sam folded the short missive. The memory of waking up in the bright sunlight, seeing Jack's expressive face, believing she'd died and gone to heaven, flooded her mind. Jon was right about one thing, Jack O'Neill was not as tough as he seemed.

Tucking the note into the breast pocket of her scrub top, she settled back against the pillows, lost in contemplation. Maybe now that this latest series of duplicitous machinations had been resolved, it was time she planned a little intrigue of her own. Yep, why the hell not?

The end.


End file.
